Sentiment
by Musical Intervention
Summary: After failing to prove his worth on Asgard, Loki seeks death in a swirling abyss. Instead, he finds himself on Earth. Heartbroken, confused, and invisible, he wanders across Manhattan...and finds a human girl who can see past his magic. Post-Thor, Pre-Avengers. Loki/OC.
1. Prologue

Prologue

Falling was all he'd ever known.

It was clear that he'd fallen _from_ some place. Eyes that had never glimpsed light would not search for it in the darkness; a body, throned always on emptiness, would not writhe as it yearned for support. A man would remember nothing else if he'd always called limbo his home.

But he remembered a different home, where a bridge of tourmaline crossed an ocean of sapphire. He remembered glittering towers, brushing the sky like the crystalline fingers of giants. Their beauty made him ache. The other memories were even sweeter:

The traveling sorcerer he saw as a boy, conjuring serpents from thin air; the shriek of a serving maid, hours later, when he figured out how to do it himself. Dashing through the castle doors into his first blizzard; the frantic embrace of his mother when she found him, not lost to the storm, but napping in its snow. Huge hands placing a helm atop his head; the booming laugh as it slipped down past his ears. "_You'll grow into it, son._"

A grin from the boy beside him, who stood as he was supposed to, his own helm fitting perfectly.

He _wished_ that falling was all he'd ever known.

It took a long time for time to lose its meaning; eventually, the days grew too tiresome to count. Instead, he thought of death and how it would rescue him. Was it possible for him to starve? Could he succumb to dehydration? Maybe he'd fall into a vacuum and suffocate. If the universe was merciful, a sun would burst beside him and the explosion would set him aflame. It would be worth it, he thought, just to see sunlight again.

But his universe had never been merciful. To spite him, it seemed, his prison grew even darker, even emptier. Silence pounded against his ears like a hammer while icy memories seared his flesh. He tried to scream, tried to fight them, but they kept coming. Before long, he forgot how to open his mouth.

It was then that he saw the stars.

They popped into existence before him, spheres of light, close enough to touch. At first, he did not trust them as anything more than memories. But the stars he knew did not twinkle.

He watched the orbs flicker all around him, gorging himself on their unfamiliar fire. Some grew huge with his approach, others shrinking rapidly as he passed until, finally, the last one grew tiny behind him.

"No!" he shouted, twisting his weightless body to face it. "Don't leave me!"

He realized then what he was looking at. A starry sky. A constellation.

Frantically, he twisted away from it, eyes boring into the blackness beneath him.

And there it was: a speck of dust in the distance, growing larger and more solid with every passing second. It glowed, bathed in the silver of a small sun; as he hurtled closer, colors began to pool on its surface. Silver light gave way to blue which yielded patches of soft emerald.

He began to laugh.

How fitting that, of all the planets in the universe, he would fall into this one. It would be his first - his only - triumph; the one time that fortune would pick him over Thor.

_Are you watching, brother?_ he asked, silently. _Do you know how little I want this?_

The planet dwarfed him now, replacing shadows and stars with a gentle, pulsating blue. His eyes throbbed as they took in the color's intensity. Still, he stared.

_It will be prison for both of us_, he thought. Y_ou will be trapped in Asgard, brother, and I will be trapped here. We will never get what we want._

His body passed through a layer of whitish mist and, suddenly, he was no longer falling. He hung there, suspended between two existences, claimed by neither. Then the planet took hold.

Tumbling into its blue embrace, his body cradled by the sudden rush of air, he lifted three fingers in a gesture of farewell. He wasn't sure who he meant to receive it: his brother, his memories, or the only home he'd ever known. _Perhaps all of them_, he thought.

As Earth rose up to meet him, Loki closed his eyes.


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One

The interference was becoming a problem. Crackling had taken over the company's earpieces, reducing commands and reports to spoken conundrums. Some of this information was unimportant, but much of it was crucial to their performance. Performing correctly became hard with directions lost in the static.

With no one able to determine its origin, the interference could not be stopped. It would fade every so often, lending clarity to the director as he asked, "Is everything running smoothly in the wings?" Before he received a reply, however, another wave would ripple through the headsets; he would be lucky to get an answer then.

Still, the situation was being contained. The company was not in danger of failing, at least, not yet. A bleeder had been successfully helped, thanks to someone's quick deciphering. Another assistant spoke around the bursts, timing his words so perfectly that each one could be heard. His report, that he'd successfully adjusted a safety curtain, inspired many others to speak as slowly as they could.

Dagny, however, just turned the earpiece down. The majority of its messages, garbled or otherwise, were directed to the backstage crew. As an usher, she had little use for these words; she had even less tonight with the static giving her a headache.

It wasn't the only thing, to be honest.

As shows went, tonight's wasn't bad. They were about sixty people short of capacity, but the Lapis was a big theater and this was one of its busier nights. Though Noah would get a pat on the back for publicity, everyone knew the play sold itself. That tended to happen, when Pulitzer authors gave their work to back-alley troupes. The critics had been talking for months; to be picked over the big names, this director had to be some kind of visionary.

Dagny didn't disagree with that: Marcus was a mad genius, a risk taker, and one of her closest friends. _Gardians of the Realm_ was his masterpiece, an even mixture of well-paced humor, snappy dialogue, and gripping character dynamics. For a play about viking mythology, it even managed to stay relevant.

But that helmet, and that accent, and that Loki. _They_ were painful to watch.

The helmet was the easiest to forgive: at least Marcus knew it was atrocious. Costuming had been a nightmare this season and, after four resignations by five designers, there was little time to be picky. Dagny understood this and was grateful, at least, for what had come out right. Still, as Odin mapped out battle plans onstage, she couldn't keep her eyes off his forehead. How could the scene be dramatic with that _thing_ on display? Whoever had given it goat horns deserved to be strangled.

Thor's accent was even worse; she would've gladly strangled _him_, if she thought it would help. She'd spent months researching vocal patterns, sounding out words in dilapidated textbooks and repeating them until her lips were sore. After dozens of interviews and hours of tape recordings, she'd presented her concept to the cast. Everyone else caught on, but Thor -main character, Thor - just couldn't get the hang of it. After weeks of trying, she'd suggested a shift to Middle English; he'd been better at that, but only slightly. Kyle was a great actor and a great guy, but Ben Stein would've made a better Thor.

Then there was Loki: intriguing, charismatic, and constantly traipsing between good and evil. His character was paramount to Browning's book and bringing him to life became an obsession for Marcus. During the drafting process, his research queries were frequent and exhausting; by the time they'd finished, Dagny was just as excited to see the character onstage. Her enthusiasm lasted until try-outs, when Marcus gave the part to Jacob Rommel.

Dagny had done shows with Jacob before and she knew his game. He made the rotation, bouncing between theaters, and landed himself in the Lapis every three or four shows. Marcus adored him - something about his "positive energy" - but he put her on edge. There was charming and mischievous, then there were duplicitous assholes who never stopped licking their lips.

"He's _not_ the right choice." She'd said it to Marcus repeatedly during callbacks. "He's not the guy."

"I think with the right direction, he could be great. He's got that 'bad boy' vibe."

"Collin Farrell has a 'bad boy' vibe. What he has is -"

Marcus would give her a look then, like he'd had enough; by her twelfth attempt at dissuasion, halfway through the third week of practice, he probably had.

"Marcus, look," she'd say, almost pleading. "Don't pick him. He's too skinny."

"He can gain weight."

"He's got a _spray tan_!"

"It'll fade."

Finally, she'd push her bangs out of her eyes and look right at Marcus, deploring him with every bit of anguish she could muster. "Please, sir," she'd say, widening her eyes. "He's not our Loki."

He would smile and, for just a moment, she would think she'd won. Then he'd say, "I keep you here as dramaturge so you can uncover my characters. If you don't think Jacob's Loki, fine. _Uncover_ the Loki in him."

So she had. Bit by bit, she turned her attention on Jacob, uncovering as much of the character as she could. He was naturally petulant, she gave him that, and the smiles he gave her were pure evil. To further this, she advised him on entering, suggesting that he "glide" rather than "prance"; she gave him feedback on his laughter too, clarifying the difference between "devilish" and "devious." She spent so much time with him that Marcus asked if she'd developed a crush. The idea made her want to gag, especially since Jacob refused her direction.

During Tech Week, Marcus praised her success; that, at least, was something. Clearly, he saw greatness in Jacob and, if a petty grudge made her blind to it, that was alright, as long as the audience saw it too. By the end of the first act, they definitely seemed to.

Intermission came with a flood of voices, each clamoring for attention in Dagny's earpiece. A goblet was missing, some netting had been torn, and Njord was having trouble with his microphone. The most insistent voice, however, was the static's; it came louder and more frequently now, keeping up with the rush of reports. At least, with the actors offstage, Dagny had no problems of her own. She pulled out her earpiece and slid it into her pocket; it buzzed angrily against her thigh as she exited the room.

The vivacious speaker was a whisper, compared with the lobby's volume. Audience members formed clusters, discussing the show and laughing loudly about their own unrelated affairs. As she directed a reporter to the restroom, Dagny heard someone call Jacob a "beefcake"; maneuvering past her, she wasn't sure whether to giggle or cry.

"How do you think it's going?"

The voice belonged to Claire, another of the Lapis' ushers. She was the same age as Dagny, but almost a head shorter, giving her a certain aptitude for surprise appearances. Peals of her delighted laughter rang out after each one: even after two years, she still made Dagny jump.

The girls smiled at each other.

"I think Marcus will be ecstatic. Have you heard all the compliments he's getting?"

"Only about a thousand," Claire giggled. "It's too bad about the Brownings, though."

"The Brownings?"

James Browning, author of The Gardians of the Realm, had been set to attend for nearly three months. He'd refused to accept free tickets, purchasing them himself, the day they became available. His three front-row seats had been causing anxiety for weeks; everyone, Marcus especially, wanted to hear his reaction. Had he already said something? Had it been bad?

Claire gestured to her earpiece. "Didn't you hear? Marley just reported it. I guess they never showed up."

"Oh." Dagny touched the bulge in her pocket, breathing a sigh of relief. "No. I took my earpiece out."

"I don't blame you," her friend replied. "The static's a nightmare."

"So is Browning not showing up. _Everyone_ wanted to know what he thought."

Claire shrugged. "I guess he'll read about it in the papers. His loss."

"His loss," Dagny echoed. Part of her - a very small part that wasn't concerned with Marcus' feelings - was glad that Browning hadn't come. At least, he wouldn't see that helmet.

But she still had to. The clusters were beginning to migrate, squeezing their way towards the doors for Act Two.

"Time to go," Claire observed, patting Dagny on the shoulder before she disappeared. Moments later, her dark braids popped up by Door A.

Feeling rather like a shepherd, Dagny pushed herself into the crowd. She wove her way through the throng, avoiding those who were moving and informing those who weren't that the show was about to resume. A young couple needed help finding their seats and, by the time she'd shut Door C, the house lights were fading. The act's opening line came from Loki.

During the previous scene, the god had tricked Odin into giving him refuge. The curtains rose on the All Father's throne; Loki sprawled across it, eating grapes from the hand of a minor goddess. His expression was pure arrogance, the inflated confidence of someone with exactly what he wanted.

It was the one scene Jacob did right.

"It is hard work, this godliness," he proclaimed, inspiring raucous laughter from the audience. Seconds later, Odin and his goat helm would enter; Dagny looked away before they did.

Instead, she scanned the crowd, playing a game she'd grown good at in the past two years. "Spot the Critic" was a long-standing competition between her and Claire: they compared observations after every show. While some were easy to locate, jotting things down on their notepads and smart phones, others were more difficult. Was the man with the mustache leaning forward to hear better, or was he trying to remember a specific quote? Was the woman with the scarf contemplating character motive, or was she searching for an appropriate adjective? Since there was no way to check, each girl claimed herself as the champion. Dagny had a feeling, though, that she was in the lead.

Her eyes skimmed the crowd, resting on a man in a tailcoat, then a woman with diamond earrings. Though she wasn't watching the show anymore, she could have repeated any line, word for word, without looking up. She'd heard them all that often.

"Who wrote this rubbish?"

Well, that was new.


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

He'd spent so much time tumbling through emptiness that, when the crash came, Loki was glad to feel solid earth beneath him. The sensation was almost comfortable; almost enough to block out the pain, and the memories, and the feeling of frigid water swirling around him. It was almost enough to stop splintered bits of ice, which had filled his mouth on impact, from burning as they slid down his throat. But it was only _almost_ enough. The pain was still vicious and the memories still stung; the freezing water still scalded as it brushed against his skin.

He lay there, pressed flat, as an assortment of images flickered across his vision; his last thirty seconds - his _first_ thirty seconds on Earth - were scatted, but vibrant, as they replayed in his mind. He remembered the sudden barrage of colors: reds, browns, and silvers that were painful after so long in darkness. He remembered the terror and exhilaration that came from falling through storm clouds. He remembered the sight of a city: a gleaming metropolis which, despite its foreign appearance, still prompted memories of home. And he remembered hurtling towards a bright patch of white, which had morphed into a frozen pond as he came closer, then morphed again, beneath his body, as it shattered.

Far above him, fragments of ice bobbed in a current he'd created. He watched their progress and wondered what would happen if he chose not to rise. Would prolonged submergence be enough to end his life? A better question, maybe, was how long it would take. Not long, he imagined: he could already feel icy tendrils curling around his neck. It would be so simple to just close his eyes and wait...

"There's somebody in the water!"

Loki's eyes snapped open.

"We need help over here! Somebody fell in!"

A sigh escaped his lips; seconds later, three small bubbles were the only indication that he'd been there.

A mess of jabbering humans quickly formed around the pond, clogging the air with their tinny shrieks and frantic gestures. Some of them grew impatient, so desperate to see the sunken man that they formed perches of their own. Many clamored onto wooden benches; the rest raced each other to a nearby bridge, swarming on its surface like bees. They peered over the stone railing, unaware that the man who'd fallen was now among them. His clothing was dry and distinctly human, but these changes were not the reason for their blindness. Even if they'd looked directly at him, Loki would have seemed no more than a gap in their ranks. It was from this gap that he watched.

A young man broke from the crowd below, pushing his way to the exact edge of the pond. He began removing his jacket, then bent down to unite his boots. As he placed one exposed foot, then the other, onto the crack-riddled ice, Loki frowned.

_He means to jump in and save me_, he realized.

His frown deepened.

The man made it four feet before the ice groaned beneath him: it was a low sound, but constant, and it only grew louder as he lurched forward. It was obvious that each step sent waves of agony through his bare feet. Still, he continued, quickening his pace, as the distance closed to ten yards.

_Stupid man_, Loki thought. _What do you think you'll find? There's no one there to rescue._

He looked away. As he wound his way through the spectators, heading for the bridge's end, he heard them take a collective breath. Cursing himself, he turned.

The hero had stopped running and was, instead, balanced precariously in an attempt to fight gravity. Beneath him, the ice was finally giving way.

For the second time in as many minutes, Loki sighed.

The breath escaped his lungs and tumbled over the edge of the bridge, dropping towards the pond's dark water. Once there, it twisted and grew, forming itself into another invisible man. This specter, an extension of himself, used one of its hands to steady the rescuer and waved another to repair the ice. When the man was no longer in immediate danger, it crouched down and spoke into his ear.

"There's no one in this water." Loki's voice came out of its mouth. "A tree branch broke the ice. You might want to turn around and go back."

The young man blinked. He stared hard at the point of collision, frowning at the bobbing ice, then turned back to face the crowd.

"There's no one in this water," he announced, clearly. "It's just a tree branch. I'm coming back."

A murmur of disappointment went through the crowd, but was quickly masked by cries of relief. These turned into shouts of encouragement, then a few scattered cheers when the man reached solid ground. People began to dissipate as he slid his boots on; by the time he'd tied his shoelaces, he was the only one left on the bank.

_So this is Earth_, Loki thought.

It was not the planet he remembered. On his last visit, nearly a millennium ago, he'd been bowed to by emaciated humans in animal skins. More recently, he'd watched through the eyes of a specter as men in synthetic suits puzzled over magic and myth. The former had been cautious and reverent, cursing evil winds from their wooden huts; the latter were precise and sterile, their own region surrounded by barren wasteland. Loki tried not to dwell on these memories: they were too hard to separate from home.

He forced himself to swallow, burying whatever he could, and finally left the bridge. Direction did not matter - it was meaningless without a destination - so he focused only on distracting himself. He took meaningless turn after meaningless turn, following the pond until it disappeared behind him. After that, he looked at the trees.

Many of them were bare; they had pockmarked skin and twisted arms that stretched, desperately, toward the sky. The rest had been stuck with a thousand green quills, forced to bow under piles of dirty snow. They were a separate breed altogether from the breathing trees of Asgard. This difference, though, didn't stem the flow of memories.

The trees he remembered were smooth and mirror-like, their faultless surfaces soft to the touch. He knew them well: he'd spent years watching his brother climb them. Thor would haul himself into the topmost branches, knocking the ripest fruit down for his friends. Loki remembered looking up at him, shielding his eyes from the sun; he remembered how much brighter it was when he hung from the tree tops, himself.

_"Brother, look! I did it!"_

_"It doesn't count if you use magic, Loki."_

He stopped looking at the trees.

It was much safer to watch the humans: they were so easy to separate from his memories that they inspired none of their own. He thought of their species as homogeneous, a uniform population that dressed, spoke, and acted as one. Those surrounding him, however, were strictly individual. Some chattered and maneuvered in groups, while others proceeded in comfortable solitude. Many hurried forward with apparent purpose, while their fellows seemed content to wander aimlessly. Their voices came in a menagerie of tongues, strange languages mingling into a continuous, incomprehensible sentence. He listened, despite his confusion, hoping to learn the name of his newfound prison. Instead, he heard stories.

It was much later, he guessed, when the snow began to fall. He didn't notice it at first, absorbed in the roar of human conversation, but the sounds around him faded as a flake landed on his nose. It lay there, melting, as another alighted on his finger. He looked down at it and froze: it looked exactly the same as the snow on Asgard.

A dozen memories cut through him, but none as jarring as the collision. Something - something large and loud and giggling - smashed into him from behind, absorbing his body into its midst. It took him a moment of cursing and tripping to realize what it was. Then the painfully bright clothing and shrill chirping meshed into one realization: he'd been dragged into a group of human girls.

He stumbled, forced erratically forward by their jerky movements; it took him the length of the path to gain stable footing. As the group began to turn, he took a sudden breath and vanished. Moments later, he appeared beneath a dark, gnarled tree.

The girls continued with their excited chittering, unaware that an invisible man had entered, then left, their ranks. Two of them tried to catch snowflakes in their mouths while a third gestured farther down the path. Loki followed her motion, taking in more humans, more trees, and then...the path ended.

His eyes went wide.

There, just a few yards away, was the metropolis he'd seen from the sky. Its buildings reared up, reflective and proud, on the opposite side of a street; they watched with obvious supremacy as metal vehicles raced by on top of it. A particularly large one stopped on his side of the street, humming impatiently; it was to this that the human girl pointed.

Loki's eyes roved over the human creation, taking in its dingy glass doors and dull, blue stripe. Faded white letters spelled out "New York City Bus" on its side; atop its roof, a black screen alternatively read "Central Park" and "Times Square."

Loki peered up into the tangled branches of his tree, then back at the others and their maze of twisting paths.

_Central Park..._

He turned back to face the city and watched the girls board their "bus."

_Times Square._ His brow furrowed. _Why not?_

He heaved himself into the vehicle, last in a long line of humans, just as its doors hissed shut. Their sound was unpleasant, but not nearly as bad as the odor: the interior was a mixture of sulfur, sweat, and a poor imitation of the park's tree scent. The line jerked forward, allowing him to ascend further, and brought him into the path of a large, heat-spewing vent. The warm air only made the smell worse.

The bus was as grimy on the inside as it had seemed from the park. Scattered humans lined its walls, many of them grimacing from patched, plastic benches. Seated in a chair of his own, accepting coins from the line of humans, was a worn man in an equally shabby hat. As the group dwindled to nothing, Loki brushed past him. He looked to his left, then to his right, gritting his teeth.

There were no seats left.

He turned, wondering if he should exit the vehicle, just as it gave a tremendous lurch. Pitching forward onto one of the benches, he had barely enough time to steady himself, before another jerk sent him sprawling again. He caught sight of a foggy window as he fell for a third time: the bus was merging itself into the crowd of racing carriages.

Gripping a handful of sticky plastic, Loki heaved himself to a standing position and braced himself for the next group of spasms. After only a few moments, though, the material grew slick in his hands. He stumbled again, grabbing a human man's arm for support; the man did not feel his touch but their contact gave Loki an idea.

"Excuse me." His lips were level with the man's ear. "It would be extremely kind of you to offer me your seat."

The man nodded.

"Thank you," Loki said.

He watched the man extract himself from the bench, reaching for the ceiling to steady himself. A set of metal handholds swung from there and man seemed comfortable enough, gripping one. Still, Loki preferred to sit. He'd had quite enough of falling.

The city twisted and changed beyond the window. It was a painting, an abstract work of blended light and colors, framed by the cracked pane. Some of them stood out: a white building, covered in intricate, golden designs. A storefront composed entirely of glass. Even more of them blended together until, finally, he saw only his reflection.

Dull crescents of violet ringed his eyes and an unfamiliar wrinkle had etched itself into his forehead. There was a yellowish bruise on his neck, a parting gift from his brother, and one corner of his mouth drooped, even when he attempted a smile.

For the first time in his life, Loki felt exhaustion. The sensation was uncomfortably foreign: in the past, his body had rarely required sleep. He'd thought, at one time, that he'd inherited this trait from Odin. While Thor slumbered long and often, his snores rattling the palace walls, their father could go entire decades without respite. Indeed, one of the only times he rested was during the Odinsleep. It was said that, even then, he remained fully aware.

Yearning for such a sweet relief as sleep, Loki realized that he'd lost his last connection to the King of Asgard.

His eyes had almost closed when the vehicle stopped.

The sounds of scuffling feet and impatient mumbling grew louder as the humans got up from their benches. They formed a long, grumbling line in the center aisle, shuffling slowly towards the front of the bus. Once again, Loki was last; he'd barely made it outside when the doors hissed shut behind him. He glanced back at the vehicle, just for a moment, and saw it move back into the fray, before he was carried away by a tsunami of humans.

It was worse than being trapped by the young girls. These humans poured in from all directions, prodding, jabbing, and shoving him along. He tripped forward for a few feet, then was caught up in a new crowd and dragged back; before he knew it, he could no longer see the bus or the space it had left. He allowed the wave to tug him back and forth, too mobile for magic to take effect, and waited for an exit to materialize. After a moment, the tiniest of gaps appeared. It took all of his strength to squeeze his way through.

He paused, breathing heavily through his nose, as a barrage of panicked thoughts flickered across his mind. Loudest, most repetitive of all, was the question, _What_ was _that?_ Before he could formulate an answer, he lifted his gaze...and saw a yellow carriage hurtling towards him, mere inches away.

He vanished seconds before impact, the vehicle rushing by as if nothing had been in its path. Reappearing an instant later, he didn't even have time for a gasp of relief, when a massive, white bus nearly crushed him from behind. As he vanished once again, he realized where he stood: in the exact center of the wide, blacktopped street.

It took him longer to reappear this time. When he did, on the top step of a large, crimson staircase, he was under the influence of another strange sensation. At first, he couldn't quite determine its origin. It was too pleasant to be pain, but it left him gasping for oxygen. His legs, usually so reliable, quivered beneath him. Blood and adrenaline pounded against his ribcage and, recognizing them, he suddenly realized what he was feeling. He nearly laughed out loud.

Excitement.

For the first time since leaving Asgard, since he'd faced his brother in combat, prepared to defeat him once and for all, Loki felt _excited_.

_So this is Earth_, his thoughts repeated.

With his heartbeat still wild, he cast his eyes over the staircase, examining the scattered humans sitting there. They were as unique as they'd been in the park only, now, their bodies were spattered with white. The snow was falling thicker now, coating the staircase, the humans, and the roaring chaos all around them.

A group of fat, grayish creatures poked at clumps of it on the ground; their greasy beaks and beady eyes convinced him they were birds. A young human boy tossed a spherical chunk of snow into their midst and they scattered, drawing his attention to the sky as they flew. A seething mass of whitish clouds had blotted out the sun, but this was not what caught his attention.

Exploding against the clouds was a kaleidoscope of shapes and images. They'd been plastered to, hung from, and raised upon every available surface, coating the skyline with a medley of flashing colors. It was rhythmic, melodic, changing with each blink of his eyes. Some of them remained still, glowing and constant as a silvery moon; others were in continuous motion as strips of moving pictures and constellations of sparks rolled across their gigantic surfaces. Human words, like Coca Cola, Google, Apple, and Stark rolled across the screens with regularity. He wondered if those were the names of their gods, their kings.

_Strange names._

He spent a long time there, dangling from the cold, metal step, watching the buildings of Times Square. There were occasional moments when snippets of conversation or miscellaneous images would remind him of home; for the most part, though, he forgot to remember. Eventually, the snow began to accumulate on his knees, filling the pockets of his long, gray coat. When that happened, he dusted himself off and stood. Picking his way down the staircase, he took a deep breath and stepped back into the crowd. He let it absorb him, keeping pace this time, allowing the wave to lead him where it would.

It led him down snow-dusted pathways, under emerald awnings, and past windows which doubled as waterfalls. He watched humans in every activity he could imagine, and many more that he couldn't: begging for money, strumming stringed instruments, carrying mountains of books, screaming at one another in the street. Many of them wore strange fashions, all of them unique and few of them familiar; it came as a shock when, on one corner, he passed a woman in a dress that might have been, though not popular, at least accepted on Asgard.

After a substantial distance had grown between himself and Times Square, he began to take note of the streets he traversed. It took him four similar names to notice that each one was labelled, not by a name, but by a number. _Is this species so uncreative_, he wondered, _That this is its only means of differentiating?_ When he passed his thirteenth street sign, however, he was glad for the system. It assured him that he'd not been traveling in circles.

Once again, he wandered without purpose or direction, trekking behind one human, then another, hoping to prolong his feeling of excitement. With his eyes roving over man's creations and his ears straining to hear its stories, he was not happy - he could not imagine being _happy_ on this planet - but he was, at least, distracted.

This lasted until the sky went black.

He'd been following the same man for a long time, intrigued by his air of purpose. This human, he thought, would lead him somewhere interesting. It was for this reason that, when the man veered onto a side street, Loki chose to follow. Their new path was much darker, replacing colorful shop windows with shabby, brick buildings. Randomly placed lanterns jutted above the street, failing in their attempt to dispel shadows. A group of humans huddled beneath one, scattering as the man came close. They scurried in a variety of directions, winding between alleyways and buildings, as Loki's guide approached a grimy, metal door. He pulled it open and disappeared inside.

It occurred to Loki that he was alone.

A thousand waiting memories exploded across his vision. He was imprisoned again, confined to a sphere of crushing silence, only, this time, he was not blind. Vivid images pulsed across his mind and he could not fight their melodic precision. He was unable to breathe, unable to stand, unable to feel anything but a stream of agony and the brief sensation of his knees giving out.

There was an instant of relief as he collapsed. He gasped, desperately, trying to remember where he was.

_I am on Earth, in the human city of New York._

But he wasn't.

He was in the center of a flaming battlefield, watching insurmountable enemies stalk closer, as golden mist streamed from his fingertips.

He was surrounded by books at a wooden table, clinging desperately to one's cover as Thor tore it from his grip.

He was examining the golden scepter in his hands, wondering how something so important could possibly weigh so little.

He was dangling above a yawning abyss, burdened by the weight of defeat, pleading for the one thing that would save him.

_Enough._

It took every ounce of Loki's strength to pull free from the past. He breathed deeply, relishing the street's darkness, doing what he could to calm himself. The second onslaught was already coming, flickering at the edge of his consciousness.

A door opened on his left.

Two men stumbled out of it, abandoning a building that was squatter and dirtier than the rest. They were laughing, arms around each other, forgetting the tune to what seemed like a love song. Even from the ground, Loki could smell the alcohol.

The approaching memories faded as he realized there were other ways of distracting himself.

* * *

Human ale was less intoxicating than he'd hoped for, but Loki forgot this by his eighth or ninth glass. He'd rarely visited taverns on Asgard - that was Thor's forte - but, after three hours in this one, he couldn't imagine why. Its roaring volume drowned out his thoughts and the barman was easy to influence; violent arguments erupted among grungy men, dissolving into compliments just as quickly. He felt comfortable in their midst. More comfortable, he mused, than he'd ever felt at home.

It took a long time but, eventually, the pressing crowd and dim lighting ceased to be a relief. He had a sudden craving for open spaces, for spiraling colors, and anything else that didn't remind him of falling. The city, it seemed, would be a good place to start.

Wrapping his arm around a wooden support beam, Loki hauled himself to his feet. He swayed there, admiring his newfound friends, wondering if it would be polite to make himself visible and tell them goodbye. Then he lost his grip, lurched to the side, and decided against it.

As he stepped through the door, he stumbled, nearly falling down the tavern's front steps. He caught himself on a railing, smiling to himself as he _carefully_ made his way down.

_Brother_, he thought, chuckling. _If you could only see me now._

He wandered the length of the street, peering into open windows and brushing against parked carriages, just to see what they felt like. When he ran out of road, he turned left, then right, then whichever direction suited him until, once again, he found himself in a crowd of humans.

They seemed to crop up suddenly for a such a noisy, expansive group, but Loki was more interested in their gathering place. The building looked older than its neighbors, not quite as tall, but three times their width. It would have been elegant, had it not been painted a strange shade of blue. Protruding from its wall, about ten feet above the tallest human, was a gigantic, illuminated sign. Dozens of white bulbs rimmed its edges, but the most magnificent had been formed into words, spelling out what he assumed was the name of the building.

_The Lapis._

A sharp voice cut over the babble and, though Loki missed its words, the humans took them as a signal. Members of the crowd began filing, one by one, through the building's glass doors; he followed their progress, swaying slightly, watching the entrances swing open and closed. As the last humans passed through one of them, he noticed a poster stuck to its surface. In fact, now that he looked properly, there was one on every door. They were colorful. He decided he liked them.

He stepped closer to the central entrance, intent on discerning the images and words within the swimming colors. He blinked multiple times before he understood them. When he finally did, he blinked again.

There was a portrait of his brother on the poster.

Of course, it wasn't _really_ him. His brother's actual muscles weren't quite so pronounced, his hair was much shorter, and his helm was platinum, not silver. Still, it was clear whom the painter meant to depict: Thor, with Mjölnir raised high, summoning forks of lightning from the heavens. And surrounding him, lit up by the electricity, were more familiar faces.

Odin's hand rested on Thor's right shoulder, his stoic expression surprisingly accurate, as he looked upon his _rightful_ heir. To their left was an imaginative portrayal of Sif who, though equally beautiful in real life, would rather have killed Thor than simper at him like that. Heimdall watched from an upper corner, perched beneath Máni and Sol. And there, at the bottom, grinning mischievously above the title...

Loki froze.

It was him.

As he examined his doppleganger, noting its snakelike features and malevolent stare, he felt memories stir within him for the first time in hours. At the same time, he was overtaken by a fit of hiccuping giggles.

His eyes dropped down to the title.

"_Gardians of the Realm_," it read. "_A play by Marcus De la Rocque. Based on the epic novel by Michael Browning._"

He read it three times before it made sense, then another three before his laughter subsided into thoughtfulness. Could it be, he wondered, that these humans remembered their skin-wearing ancestors? Could it be that they remembered Asgard?

He glanced over his shoulder at the city street behind him. In the distance, buildings loomed, their sweeping towers scraping against the inky sky. Laughing humans milled along walkways or climbed into vehicles which sped off into the night. He turned back to the glass door in front of him and read the poster one more time.

"Well," he said aloud. "I guess that's worth a look."


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

The outburst came from the front of the theater, though from which section, Dagny could not tell. At first, she thought it must've been an actor. Even the most obnoxious guests never spoke above a mumble and _that_ voice had been loud and clear. Had Terrence forgotten to turn his mic off again?

The audience didn't seem too disturbed - maybe the shout had gone unnoticed - but Dagny fumbled in her pocket, all the same. Fingers closing around her earpiece, she prepared herself to speak over the static, praying that someone would interpret her message before any more damage was done.

"This is absolutely preposterous! That would _never_ happen on Asgard!"

Too late.

The male voice rippled over the crowd again, drifting back from the first section of seats. Since the Lapis' speakers were exclusively wall-mounts, it had to belong to an audience member. A very rude, very opinionated audience member.

Dagny lost her grip on the earpiece and it slid down her palm, its pace quickened by the accumulating slickness. The curtain had just dropped, blocking the crew from sight as they erected Scene Three's battleground, and the coming lines were some of the play's most crucial. If the audience missed them...well, her game of "Spot the Critic" had become much more important.

Her eyes flitted to Door A and saw Claire scanning the audience, as well. It was clear from her furrowed brow and the intensity of her expression that she'd heard the voice too. As Dagny crept into the crowd, trying to remain inconspicuous, the girls made eye contact. Claire raised her eyebrows questioningly; Dagny shrugged.

As she reached the first cross aisle, the curtain rose on a trio of conversing gods. Thor, adorned in intricate, silver chainmail, was addressing his lover, Sif, and his uncle, Hœnir. Struggling to maintain an appropriate accent, his words alternated between faithful pride in his father's army and fear of a deadly defeat. Unconscious of her lips' movement, Dagny mouthed the lines along with him.

"This day, my nephew, shall be remembered for all of time. They will sing songs of our heroism and how we faced death without fear. Come, let us die, for the cause is worthy and the adventure will be great. In dying, we will know what it means to live." The passion with which Hœnir replied, added to his reputation as a "silent" god, made this one of the play's central lines. Its effect on the audience was pleasing; as she examined their ranks for a shamefaced shouter, Dagny noticed several tear-filled eyes.

"Father, come! What say you?" She glanced up as Thor spoke again.

Odin entered from his "tent" backstage, the determination on his face equalled only by its despair. He lifted his golden staff, waving it loftily, before opening his mouth to answer. When he did, his words - "Wiser counsel, there has never been" - were eclipsed by a cacophonous laugh. It was wild, energetic, and mirthlessly amused. Clearly, it belonged to the same man. Dagny's neck swung towards it as suddenly as if she'd been yanked by a taut rope. She finally saw the culprit, seated in the exact center of the front row.

Michael Browning's seat.

Her pace quickened as a series of worried questions jolted through her mind. Was it possible that Browning had shown up, after all, and felt entitled to his negative opinions? But no, this man was too tall to be the author, and he spoke with a pronounced accent. Was it possible, then, that Browning had sent someone in his place? That still didn't answer the question of why he was being so impossibly rude.

"And that helm is _horrendously_ inaccurate!"

Dagny had three thoughts, one right after the other, as she finally reached the front section of seating.

The first was, _Well, at least he's right about something._

The second was a sudden understanding of his speech. The man's slurred voice made it painfully obvious that he was drunk.

The third came as she skidded to a halt in front of him: _What now?_

In all her rush to find the disturbance, Dagny had not considered what she'd do when she did. Every phrase she'd learned from Marcus, things like "If you're not going to respect your own theater experience, at least respect everyone else's" and "Our troupe put a lot of time into this play, so please do your best to pay attention," evaporated from her mind. She was left, gaping and sputtering, facing a stranger who had yet to notice she was there.

For better or worse, she was distracted by another significant line from the stage. Loki, who had spent the entirety of the first act plotting against Thor, was now proclaiming his allegiance to the thunder god's battlements.

"Without him, all is lost," he said, reverently. "Our only hope now is Thor."

The man before her erupted into another bout of laughter, slightly more indignant than the last. "Never in my _life_," he choked between giggles, "Would I utter such folly! This is madness!"

A crease formed between her eyes as Dagny pursed her lips together. Her palms were still sweaty and there was a slight tremor in her fingertips, but she ignored these as she hissed angrily:

"_Excuse me._"

It came out as more of a question than an admonishment, but it seemed to do the trick. The man, who had been poised to say something else, shut his mouth with an audible snap. His eyes went wide as he finally caught sight of the girl, standing in front of him with her arms crossed tight. Unfortunately, he wasn't the only one to notice her.

She had hoped she could subtly quiet the critic without drawing any more attention to him - or to herself. It seemed that wouldn't be the case though, when the already squirming audience, began to murmur uncomfortably. A few of them met Dagny's eyes and she quickly looked away.

_Alright_. She took a deep breath. _Let's get this over with._

She bent into a crouch, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible while she thought up a coherent scolding. As she leaned closer to him, the man's eyes followed her, still staring. He looked as puzzled as she felt. For a moment, Dagny wondered what he was thinking.

"Excuse me," she repeated, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Sir, you're disturbing the other audience members. I'm going to have to ask you to quiet down."

She did her best to sound authoritative, while keeping her tone calm and kind. One of Marcus' lessons, at least, seemed to be coming back to her. "However much you might want to," he'd said once, "Never yell at a guest." Dagny rarely _wanted_ to yell at anyone, much less a member of her audience. Something about this man made the thought particularly intimidating.

He had the look of a aristocrat, stamped with arrogance, composure, and a hint of eccentricity. His hair was longer than a typical man's, falling neatly to his shoulders, and it was black as the shadows around him. The coat he wore was simple and dark, beneath it was an elegant suit. His pale face and thin lips were arranged in a mask of dazed confusion. He still hadn't answered.

It was with painful slowness that his eyes lifted to hers. She expected them to be as vacant as his expression, but they stared back at her, alert and interested. Even in the dull lighting, she could see the intensity of their color. They were a dark, cavernous shade of blue.

She looked away before he did, breaking their contact, and wondering again what kind of thoughts ran through his head. He had began to examine his suit, pinching the fabric between his fingertips, and his pursed lips had formed a frown. She watched him, transfixed.

"Tell me."

His words were so soft and sudden that, for a moment, she didn't realize he'd spoken. Then he dropped the folds of his suit and glanced up at her, all trace of intoxication gone. In a voice smooth as velvet, he said, "Tell me how you are able to see me."

"Um," she sputtered. "Sir, you're sitting right in front of me. Of course I can see you. It's you talking that's the problem."

He raised his eyebrows. "What is your name?"

Dagny was so startled that an answer spilled out of her before she could stop it. "It's - it's Dagny, sir."

"Dagny." He glanced down at his suit again. "Are you a sorceress, Dagny?"

"_What?_" She'd forgotten to whisper that time and someone in the third row let out an irritated sigh. Glancing apologetically in their direction, she thought to herself, _What is wrong with this guy?_

Disregarding the crowd, whose annoyance had grown palpable, the man repeated himself at normal volume. "A sorceress. Can you perform magic?"

"No..." Dagny's eyes flitted between the man and the audience. "But, sir, you've been disturbing the other patrons and I really have to ask you to settle down."

His eyes settled back on her, bright and calculating. He did not reply.

Dagny frowned, wondering if this was his way of assenting. He was more than likely drunk and obviously had a screw or two loose, but at least he'd stopped shouting. "Okay," she said in her quietest voice. "I'm going to go now. Um...thank you, sir."

She had just taken a step towards the center aisle, prompting relieved sighs from the audience, when his voice cried out again. "Human!"

_Human?_

The crowd began to rumble. On stage, the actress playing Sol stumbled over a line.

"Down in front!" Someone yelled.

Slowly, her sweaty palms forming into fists, Dagny turned to face the man. Something between a desperate plea and a frustrated snap was ready on her lips, but it evaporated when she realized how close he was. He'd risen from his seat to tower over her, staring down with his mesmerizingly blue eyes.

"Dagny," he murmured. "I think it would be best for both of us if you could no longer see me." Before she could stutter out an answer, he continued. "I think you would be quite happy to return to your other duties and forget that you saw me here."

Her jaw dropped. She felt blood rushing to her face. Was he insane? Did he think he could control her, send her scurrying away like a servant, just because he was a wealthy guest and she was an usher? This was the Lapis - _her_ theater - and _Gardians of the Realm_ was _her_ play. She'd spent six months making it perfect and she would not be chastised for keeping it that way.

For the first time in her two year employment, Dagny wanted to yell at an audience member.

"Sir," she hissed, all kindness gone from her voice. "You're going to have to sit down and _be quiet_ or I'm going to ask you to leave."

A flicker of irritation crossed his features. "Why won't you listen?" he asked, softly.

"Why won't _I_ listen?"

Dagny was overwhelmed, a useless jumble of pride, anger, and indecision. She didn't know what to say or do, only that, whatever it was, it had to get the man _out_. Her heart was pounding and the audience was stirring and Laufey had missed his cue to start the battle...

Of its own accord, her hand lashed out. Its movement was swift and precise, latching onto the man's sleeve, almost as if she knew what she was doing. But she didn't know; she didn't even remember sending the command. Her grip tightened automatically and she took a purposeful step backward, all without a conscious thought. The man didn't protest.

He remained silent, watching her pensively, as she dragged him away from the stage. There was a small crease in his forehead, but he gave no indication that her grip bothered him; when they rounded a corner and her hand brushed his skin, she was the only one to flinch.

It was she, not him, who stared straight ahead, feeling like a doll on display. The audience had turned back to the show, but she could still feel their eyes on her. Expressions ranged from annoyed to sympathetic, with a smattering of obvious confusion. She tried her best to look capable but, as she neared Door C, she felt anything but. She was expressly aware of her fingers on the man and the fact that, if he _was_ a representative of Browning, she'd just made a terrible impression.

A blush began creeping up her neck as she passed the last few seats. Her eyes longed to search for Claire, but she kept them trained on the door's handle, not blinking until they'd gone through it. When it had swung shut behind them, she let out a deep breath and dropped her eyes to the carpet. For the second time that night, she thought, _What now?_

"Look," she said, quietly. About ten minutes too late, Marcus' speech had come back to her. "Thank you for coming to the Lapis Theater. We appreciate your patronage but your, um, disruptive behavior has made it impossible for us to accommodate you." She paused. "I don't know if you're here for Mr. Browning -"

"Mr. Browning?"

His sudden interruption caught her off guard. She looked up and was startled again by the brilliance of his eyes. In the lobby's fluorescent lighting, they looked even bluer.

"Mi-Michael Browning," she stuttered. "Original author of the play?"

"Oh," the man said, thoughtfully. "Yes, I saw his name on the door."

"You mean, you don't know him?"

"No." His voice was apathetic, distracted. "Should I?"

"If you don't know him, why were you sitting in his seat?"

His eyes slid over her again, giving her the distinct impression that she was being appraised. It made her uncomfortable, as if she'd been shoved beneath a spotlight, and she felt her breath catch. He still hadn't answered her.

"Why were you in Browning's seat?" she repeated.

"It was empty."

She was saved from forming a response by Claire, who flung Door A open and scurried into the lobby with her braids streaming out behind her. She skidded to a halt in front of Dagny, directly beside the man. He towered over her, but she didn't seem to care.

"What the _hell_ just happened?" she demanded.

Dagny's eyes slid to the man, almost apologetically, before flickering back to her friend. Claire was even more animated than usual, anxiety plain on her face as she bounced from foot to foot. The anger was obvious, as well, in her pointed ignorance of the critic; it nearly made the sleeve grab look polite.

She felt her confusion growing, if that were possible, as she lowered her voice to a whisper. "I'm _so_ sorry that took so long. I think everything's under control now, he's about to leave. I was just asking him some questions. Apparently, he's not with Browning." She leaned forward, her mouth inches from Claire's ear as she added, "I think he's drunk."

To her surprise, Claire's anxious expression only grew more pronounced. She looked downright horrified as she placed a hand on Dagny's forehead. "Dagny, honey," she replied. "What are you talking about?"

Dagny heard the man let out a breath, but barely registered the sound. Her friend's response was so strange, so uncharacteristic, that, for a moment, she could only stare.

"The heckler," she finally said. "The man I escorted out? He's right behind you."

Claire's eyes widened and she spun around but, after only a second or two, she turned back to Dagny. Her expression hadn't changed.

"There's no one there, Dagny."

The ludicrousness of the situation almost made her laugh. Was it possible that the entirety of this night had been some strange, deluded joke? Had Claire teamed up with the man to prank her? But, even as she thought it, she knew it couldn't be true. Claire wasn't one for humiliation and she would _never_ interfere with a show.

As she tried to form a rational explanation for every passing second in which no one yelled "Gotcha!", a tiny part of Dagny's brain repeated the man's words: "_Tell me how you are able to see me_."

But those were the words of a drunk man, a crazy man. Of course people could see him. Why else would Claire have rushed into the lobby, looking so angry and horrified? Why else would the audience have been so obviously irritated?

"Claire," she said, her voice an octave higher than usual. "Didn't you hear him too?"

The lobby doors flew open again only, this time, it was Marcus who blew through them.

He called out Dagny's name as he strode forward, a musical lilt to his voice that only came out when he was panicked. Or furious. "Can you _please_ inform me what _in God's name_ you were thinking out there?"

Dagny felt as if her lips had been sewn shut, so impossible was it for her to open them and answer his question. She had never been on the receiving end of his rage and the thought alone terrified her. When combined with Claire's inability to see the critic, it was enough to leave her petrified. She couldn't speak, couldn't think, couldn't do _anything_ but gape at him as he broke into a passionate speech that would rival even Hœnir's.

"Almost a full house tonight!" he spat, bitterly. "Our biggest show of the season - the one that's _finally_ going to put the Lapis on the Broadway _spectrum_ - and our battle scene is interrupted by...by...whatever stunt you were trying to pull. I would never have thought _you_ capable, Dags." He leaned forward until his face was inches from hers, all of the usual warmth gone from his chocolate eyes. His voice grew even quieter. "Why did you do it? Was it really _that much of a problem_ that Jacob played Loki? Are you really so bothered by it that you would _ruin_ our show?"

"Marcus." Claire's voice came from behind them but, if he heard her, he didn't show it. He kept his snarling face fixed on Dagny, who was still too stunned to react. To make matters worse, she could feel desperate tears forming behind her eyes. What had she done wrong? What was going on?

"You've always been a good friend to me, Dagny, but if you think that will keep me from punishing you for this, well, you're _sorely_ -"

"_Marcus!_" The shout echoed around the lobby. It was so loud that the three troupe members turned, automatically, towards the theater doors, watching them in unified trepidation. When there was no audible reaction, Marcus whirled on Claire.

"_What?_" he growled.

"I think Dagny's sick."

His brow furrowed, but he still sounded angry as he asked, "She's...what?"

"She's _seeing_ things."

It took about thirty seconds but, as the words sunk in, Marcus' rage deflated like a pricked balloon. Dagny wasn't sure if he was actually shrinking or if it just seemed that way as he straightened himself and turned back to her.

"I should have known," he said in a much gentler voice. "It was _so_ unlike you. Even I couldn't believe it." His eyes focused on her face again but, this time, they were full of concern. "You do look pale," he admitted. "And you haven't said anything in about five minutes."

She was still unable to part her lips as the director brushed her bangs away, smoothing back her ponytail to conduct the same examination as Claire. Her friend was explaining what had happened, using words like "fever" and "hallucinations," but Dagny felt far away from the conversation. Her eyes roved up to the ceiling, taking in the oceanic mural that Marcus had commissioned there, then drifting back down to the lobby. They settled on the man.

He hadn't moved in all this time, standing with his hands clasped behind him, passively watching their dramatic display. His gaze moved from person to person, but still seemed most fascinated by Dagny. She had felt it on her as Claire gauged her temperature and again during Marcus' tirade. Now, over her friends' shoulders, his eyes caught hers. He did something strange then. He smiled.

A sudden breath hitched in her throat and, finally, she felt her lips break open. They began forming silent words, as if everything she'd wanted to say for the past ten minutes was suddenly fighting its way out. This strange action seemed only to strengthen Marcus and Claire's beliefs; they had begun mumbling to themselves, worrying over whether or not to call an ambulance when, finally, Dagny found her voice.

"Just tell me one thing," she croaked.

Claire's voice cut off instantly. It took Marcus a little longer to react but his words - something about Dagny "going into shock" - began to trail off.

"What's wrong, Dags?" he asked, after a pause.

"Tell me you can't see him."

Affirmation mingled with concern on her friends' faces as they looked at each other and nodded. Their movements were so synchronized, they might've been the same person, if there weren't such a vast difference between their heights and if Claire's braids didn't click together when she moved.

"We can't see him, honey," she confirmed.

The man began to laugh, catching Dagny's attention and no one else's. She listened to the sound as it escaped his thin, pinkish lips: it wasn't the drunken cackle he'd let out in the theater. This laugh was soft and amused and its pleased, melodic rhythm made her skin start to crawl. He looked almost _satisfied_, as if he'd been waiting for Claire's words all night. Dagny felt sick to her stomach.

She knew then, without a doubt, that this was no trick. As clear as he was to her, no one else could see or hear the chuckling man. She'd been talking to herself in the front row or, at least, that was what everyone thought. The crowd hadn't been annoyed by a drunken critic - they'd been irritated with _her_ for interrupting the show. This was the truth of the matter and, however ridiculous it seemed, she had to accept that. And, after she accepted it, she had to figure out what it meant.

"I think I should go home," she said.

"That's exactly what we were thinking!" Claire chirped. "Staying here won't help anything. Why don't you go home and just sleep for a while? You'll feel better after."

Marcus spoke in the same coddling tone, telling her to forget about his yelling, that he'd never _really_ been mad at her, and that she shouldn't worry about _anything_. "If you need another day," he added, "Just text me tomorrow. You've put so much into this show already. Just do what you need to do."

Dagny felt oddly defeated as she nodded. "Thank you."

She lingered there for a moment, weighed down by confusion, guilt, and humility, before turning towards the row of glass doors. The glowing, scarlet exit signs reminded her strangely of the critic's stare, but she tried not to think about that - or him - as she started towards them. She tried, also, not to think about her friends' pity or the fact that she'd embarrassed herself in front of 600 people or the post-production procedures that she wouldn't be able to help with tonight...

"My bag," she suddenly remembered. "It's still in the dressing room."

"On it."

Dagny nodded for a second time as Claire disappeared through a familiar black door. It was an absent-minded motion and, seconds after she'd done it, her attention was back on Marcus. He looked just as distracted, like he was listening hard to something he couldn't quite make out. With a start, she remembered the earpieces. Her hand dipped into her pocket and closed around the thin, plastic device; only when she removed it did she realize that it had been buzzing ferociously since she'd entered the lobby.

From the look on Marcus' face, he was having the same problem. "Scott's trying to say something, but I can't hear worth a damn over this static. I think it's getting worse." He shrugged before holding his hand out, palm upturned. "Give me that. I'll put it at your station after the show."

"Thank you," Dagny repeated.

The lobby was silent as they waited for Claire's return. Marcus alternated between toggling his headphones, trying to discern words within the static, and staring longingly at the theater doors. Dagny wanted to tell him to go in, but she was caught up in thoughts of her own. It took all of her willpower not to glance towards the critic; despite her careful ignorance, she could still feel him there, watching her. There had to be a reason they couldn't see him. There had to be a reason _she_ could.

What she needed was a plan.

It came to her just as Claire pushed the black door open; she remained still, finalizing it, as her friend approached. Marcus rushed back to his masterpiece with a shoulder squeeze and a parting glance, as Claire asked, "Ready to go?" and held out a bulging, black tote bag.

Dagny took a breath.

She forced her eyes to skim blankly over the staring man, allowing her tense expression to relax and her clenched hands to open, before she replied. She kept all traces of fear and exhaustion from her voice as she said, "I'm feeling much better now."

Her friend's eyebrows rose, but Dagny composed her own face into a smile.

"I don't know what happened in there, but you're probably right. I must be sick or stressed or something..." She smiled again. "Don't let it ruin your night. I can make it home on my own."

When Claire still looked doubtful, she tried a joke. "Come on. If any of the other ushers start having crazy hallucinations, who's going to help them?" She waited for her friend's half-hearted smile, then added, "I promise I'll text you the second I get in. If you don't hear from me in thirty minutes, you can send out a search party."

The other girl finally nodded. "You sound more like yourself now. But you had better text me the very _second_ you open your door or there are going to be consequences." She reached out to squeeze Dagny's hand once, twice, three times. "Take care of yourself, Dagny."

"I will."

A reassuring grin remained plastered to her face as she exited the Lapis lobby, stepping into the frigid winter air, with a last glance inside.

She was just in time to see the man wind himself around her friend and, still smiling, follow her out.

* * *

It took about seven minutes to work up the nerve but, after three blocks with the man behind her, Dagny finally asked the question. She said it without looking back, her eyes trained to the sidewalk, but when he didn't answer, she turned.

"Who are you?" she asked again.

Seventh Avenue was not deserted by any means but, on this side of the street, the walkers were scattered. Nearly a block ahead of her, a woman in a fur coat hailed a taxi; behind her, two teenage boys ogled a shop model in a bikini. No one was close enough to hear her words. No one except for _him_.

She expected the man to be distracted, made deaf to her question by the city around them, but his penetrating stare was fixed on her. As their eyes crossed paths again, he let out a breath; it left a cloud of white smoke hanging in the air. It was another moment before four silvery words followed.

"My name is Loki."

Dagny blinked. Despite his bright eyes and clear voice, the joke's atrocity proved he was drunk. She scanned his face for the lie as she said, "Tell me the truth."

"I just did."

"No." She started walking again, hearing his steps pick up behind her, refusing to acknowledge his blatant teasing. What had happened at the Lapis was enough; she didn't need to be toyed with as well. "No, your name is _not_ the same as the Norse god of mischief's."

"Why not?"

His answer brought her up short and she nearly stumbled. He seemed to notice the falter in her stride because, moments later, he appeared beside her. His expression was quizzical, slightly amused.

She rolled her eyes. "Look. If you don't want to tell me your name, that's fine. How about you tell me why no one else can see you?"

His face broke into a smile then; she couldn't tell if he meant it to be mocking. "My name _is_ Loki," he assured her. "And I think the better question is why you _can_ see me."

"Alright." The word came out as a hiss between gritted teeth. "Why can I see you?"

"I don't know."

"_Ugh!_" Dagny let out a scream, an hour's worth of frustration finally boiling over the surface. She had not asked for this, not any of it. All she'd wanted was to keep the play - grotesque helmet and all - running as smoothly as possibly. Now she'd been ejected from her theater and left alone to speak riddles with a man no one could see. She needed him to cooperate. She needed to know what was happening. She needed an _answer_. Now.

Before she could launch herself into a very Marcus-like state, the man - Loki - lowered his voice and asked a question of his own.

"Shall we try something?"

Dagny ignored him.

"Dagny."

Again, she didn't reply. She focused, instead, on trying to place his unusual accent; she was positive she'd heard it before, but she couldn't imagine where. It was either British or Welsh but formal, as if he'd spent a lot of time working at renaissance fairs. And there was something else: an upward lilt that pricked at her memory. She almost wished he would keep talking, just so she could hear it again and _think_.

"Dagny, please. Stop walking."

Her hasty considerations came to a halt when he stepped in front of her, blocking her way with two wiry arms. She jolted to a halt, feet jutting across a jagged crack in the sidewalk. Before she could demand an explanation, he turned around to face her.

Quite suddenly, he was three shades brighter.

It was as if he'd stepped under a particularly bright streetlamp or like a film had been wiped from his body. His dark hair was now blacker, his lips were redder, and his skin had lightened to a pearly shade of alabaster. Even his clothing looked different. And his eyes...

For the briefest of seconds, Dagny caught sight of something within them; some hint or suggestion that was more powerful than anything she'd ever seen. They were deep as oceans and painfully striking, but those traits were only physical. When she stared into them, just for that moment, it was like looking into the sun. They were limitless.

She blinked and the sensation was gone.

Loki still faced her with his strangely bright body, giving the impression that he was waiting for something. Dagny realized what it was when the two teenagers ambled past.

"Excuse me," Loki called and, to her surprise, the boys looked up.

"Yeah?" one of them replied.

"You're able to see me, are you not?"

The boy exchanged a glance with his friend before nodding, hesitantly. "Yeah..."

"Thank you." Loki's answer was soft and dismissive as he turned his attention back to Dagny. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the teenagers backing away, but her attention was on the man's face. There was something new in it, a challenge that grew more poignant as the rest of him faded.

He was suddenly the man she'd met in the theater, covered by a mysterious pall, the colors of his body noticeably duller. A thought occurred to Dagny.

"Hey!" she shouted, not at him, but to the boys. They were now almost four buildings away but slowly, they turned back to face her.

"Can you see anything now?" Her mind was a jumble of intense curiosity and foreboding. She expected their uncertain answer before it came, but she did not want to hear it:

"Just you."

Odd looks came from both of them as they turned away for a second time, quickening their paces until they were almost jogging down the street. Dagny hardly noticed; she felt as if the crack beneath her feet had widened. As if it were about to swallow her body, as if a hole had opened in the Earth and she was tumbling through. A minute ago, she had been desperate for an answer; she realized now that she wanted nothing more than to avoid the question.

Loki opened his mouth to speak but, before any words could wander out, Dagny dodged around him and fled. She heard his footfalls behind her, but she didn't look back, keeping her arms crossed in front of her and her head bowed to the wind.

A tear trickled down her cheek before she could stop it and then she was running, passing the frightened boys and another woman waving into traffic and six more people who didn't give her a second glance. She didn't stop until she reached her building.

She leapt up its concrete steps, two at a time, and yanked a tarnished, silver key from her bag. Her quaking fingers fumbled across its surface and it slid from her grip; before she could retrieve it, a pale hand snatched it from the ground and offered it back to her. Just as it had in the theater, her body took over, whirling automatically to face the man.

"Leave me alone!" she shrieked. The sound poured out in a rush of emotion, followed by several more tears and the beginnings of a sob. "Just leave me alone," she repeated before slamming the door in his startled face.

Images raced across her mind, accompanied by explanations she couldn't bear and questions she couldn't answer. What she'd seen and heard - what she thought she'd seen and heard - was _any_ of it real? The thought of being crazy was not one she entertained often but, as she trudged up the building's marble staircase, finally alone, Dagny let it soak into her brain like poison. She prayed to god it was a fever or stress or _anything_ but insanity, but she didn't feel sick. At least, not physically.

Fear twisted in the pit of her stomach as she unlocked her door. More images, of hospital gowns and padded rooms, flashed before her eyes. They were followed by others, much more painful, of the audience's faces at the theater, of Marcus and Claire's pitying expressions, of the boys' raised eyebrows as they answered her question. Finally, there came a picture of Loki, fading to dullness in front of her.

_"Can you see anything now?"_

_"Just you."_

She took three steps towards her couch and collapsed against it, wrapping her arms around her knees, and wondering what had happened to her life.


	5. Chapter Four

**A/N: **Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed the first three chapters. This is my first attempt at fanfiction and I'm so glad it was well-received! I'm already super excited that you're reading this chapter but, if you have a second, I'd love to hear what you think in a comment or PM. Happy reading, friends!

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Chapter Four

That night, the city of New York was plagued by a rattling wind. It pressed up against windows, fingers drumming on the glass, and formed dirty mountains out of litter and snow. It ripped paper advertisements from wooden polls and urged hurrying humans into their various shelters. By midnight, the restless streets were all but empty. Only one man remained, unaffected by the vicious wind, staring at a door, waiting for it to open.

The door had been painted white and it was oddly luminous against the darkened landscape. It opened for the first time before dawn, then again when the sun rose; as groups of metal carriages began clogging the streets, a steady stream of people poured through it. The girl, the one Loki waited for, was not among them.

It took her until noon to emerge and, when she did, she did it hesitantly. Her movements were stiff, uncertain, and she looked over the crowd with round, red-rimmed eyes. They were turbulent with emotion - anxiety, shame, determination. She did not want to see him, but couldn't stop herself from searching. Her face was the same color as the door.

Loki watched from across the street, his spine bent against a steel pillar. He was shrouded from sight, as ever, but he'd taken extra precautions to avoid her vision. New clothing, the result of three hours' observation, was part of this disguise. His coat was considerably shorter, striped, and an inconspicuous shade of gray; he'd conjured an emerald scarf to curl, serpentine, around his neck, creeping up his jaw in a fashion that seemed popular. By far, the most foreign part of this ensemble was the glasses. Humans seemed to think them necessary; hundreds of passing faces were hidden behind the odd accessory. Some had frames of thick plastic, others of thin metal, and they came in colors from abysmal black to violent magenta. Many contained panes of clear glass, like windows, while others were tinted dark. He learned the name of this variety - sunglasses - from a passing merchant. It was from this man's cart that he took a pair of his own. He hoped they would conceal his identity from Dagny...provided she could still see him.

Strangely, he hoped that she could.

Liquid excitement had been coursing through his veins for hours. His curiosity was palpable, almost desperate, and her aptitude for resistance only made it stronger. She'd been able to see him and she'd refused his influence _twice_. It was exactly the puzzle he needed, exactly the distraction.

Possibilities twisted through his mind, leading him down long, winding roads to a series of dead ends. She was not a sorceress: even if her denial had been a lie, he would have sensed magic's mark upon her. His powers had not diminished, either. What options did that leave?

The answer pounded in his chest, harder, even, than his heart had in Times Square. He did not know. He would have to find out.

Unaware of his eyes on her, the girl steeled herself to enter the crowd. Their relentless symphony - vehicles roaring to life, children shouting, doors slamming shut - seemed to unnerve her and, with each new sound, she started. There was no relief in her expression as she folded herself into their midst; still, she took one nervous step after the other. Loki mirrored her motions from across the street, his gaze fixed on her face.

It was expressive, for a human's; emotions wrote themselves across her features like words on a page. Her skin flushed easily beneath its anxious pallor and her lips, too large to suit her, twisted frequently around her thoughts. She had the look of someone stretched, with a tall, flat frame, coltish limbs, and high cheekbones poking out of an oval face. Her hair, which had been tied up last night, now fell past her shoulders in a reddish brown curtain. She walked with her shoulders hunched, eyes darting from the snowy ground to the people around her. Only a few of them looked back.

Her thoughts were written so plainly, so easy for Loki to decipher. But when, he wondered, would she reveal her secret? As the question pricked at him, he rounded a corner and vanished from sight. He reappeared in the crowd behind her, his eyes trained on her striped jacket.

She led him down street after street and he wondered if they would return to her theater. Soon, though, the familiar buildings became unrecognizable; he realized, then that she had another destination in mind. She paused outside four buildings, but entered none of them: the first three times, she hesitated as people brushed past her, while her fourth stop was to examine a book display. It took another twenty minutes for her pace to change at all and then, suddenly, it quickened as she cut through the crowd. She'd reached her destination: a massive building, spanning the street with its stony, gray bulk.

It did not tower, like many of its neighbors, but what it lacked in height, it made up for in stature. A sweeping staircase led to wide, wooden doors and a series of elegant columns; beautiful statues - muses, he thought - had been erected on the roof they supported. Below them, letters were chiseled into the stone, spelling out five promising words. Loki did not have to read them to know what the building was.

A library.

For just a moment, he forgot his pursuit of the human girl. He let his footsteps lead him up the cold, stone staircase, forgetting his fall from Asgard, forgetting his crash onto Earth. Dagny was mere feet from him now, but his eyes skimmed past her to the twin, wooden doors. He felt the cacophonous city fade away as a familiar song filled his ears with whispered thoughts, rustling pages, and the melody of knowledge waiting to be had. Surrounded by the written word, he had always felt safe.

There was a sudden roar and he dropped his gaze. All thoughts of safety evaporated.

A monstrous beast sat before him, paws resting on a huge, stone plinth. It was massive, could crush him easily with a snap of its jaws, and its eyes looked hungry as they fell upon his face. Ignoring the clusters of humans, the creature remained frozen; it was waiting, he knew, for the opportunity to strike.

Frantic thoughts ran through his head. He wondered how the monster could see him, asked himself what was in the library that the humans protected so fiercely. Images of battles flashed across his vision, providing him with strategies, ideas, and then, in among the memories, came a name. The beast: it was called a lion. If only he could remember how to defeat it.

Almost a minute had passed and still, neither man nor monster had moved. Another roar shook the street and Loki trembled before realizing that his lion had not made the sound. Fearing another adversary, he whirled - and saw a human vehicle, built much like a bus, creating the sound as it sped down the street.

He turned back to the lion and realized, flushing, that it was a statue.

On the landing, about ten steps ahead of him, Dagny stood beside the doors. She was waiting, watching closely for an opening, as a river of people flowed in and out. Luckily for Loki, no one paused to allow her entrance; she had barely slipped into the building when he caught the door and followed her in.

His eyes widened at the room laid out before him. Its bronze tiles stretched almost to oblivion, overshadowed by crystal chandeliers and frescoes encased in gold. It was a hovel compared to Odin's library but, for a human creation, it was nothing short of miraculous. The walls were lined with hundreds, thousands, no, _millions_ of texts and their voices rose, once more, in a melody he longed to devour. Still, he only noted this in the back of his mind. His attention had returned to Dagny. He did not intend to lose sight of her again.

The girl's face had lost some of its pallor and she looked almost comfortable in the vast, majestic space. She wound her way past its golden tables, avoiding the other patrons with a new purpose in her step. There was still a trace of trepidation in her eyes, but it lessened as she neared the northern end. A long line of humans waited for her.

Afraid to go any closer, Loki paused beside an empty table. He lowered himself into a chair, peering through his sunglasses as the line shuffled forward and Dagny tugged at her collar. It was a long time before she reached the colossal desk at the front; there was a woman behind it and he listened carefully to their exchange.

"Hello." Dagny's voice was soft, questioning. "I have three books to return?"

The woman nodded and Dagny reached into the bag across her shoulder. She extracted three hulking volumes, one after the other, and placed them on the desk.

"Thank you very much," clipped the woman.

"It's no problem," Dagny replied.

Loki waited until she'd passed him to rise again. He kept his steps natural, unhurried, as she rounded a corner to examine a shelf; he continued past her, counted to three, then reached for a book of his own. Feigning interest its title, he let his gaze drift back to her shelf. Her hand rested against its middle row, just below a small, typed label reading "Mythology."

He took a step closer.

Dagny was frowning, reaching for a purplish book with "Germanic Legends" printed on its binding. She had barely touched it before her hand veered to the right, closing on a different volume. This one was green and she'd obscured most of its name with her grip. The only word visible was "Loki."

He took another step.

Before he could reach her, however, she released the book and turned away. He watched a grimace overtake her features as she brushed past him, thrusting empty hands into her pockets.

_She's curious_, he realized as he followed. He wondered if that fact would help him or hurt him. _But s__he's also afraid._

The city seemed louder when it rose, once again, to engulf them. Loki wasn't sure if its activity had increased during his absence or if he'd just grown used to the peace in the library. Whatever the reason, Dagny seemed to feel the same, tensing noticeably as she reentered the throng.

Her pace was quicker now; though she remained unobtrusive to passersby, she darted and dodged through openings with a startling swiftness. The buildings, ones he'd ignored on their first trip, reared over Loki in an ever-changing blur as he hastened to keep up. Her steps did not slow until she reached something called a "grocery."

The term was not one Loki recognized but, judging from the posters in its window, the shop sold the city its sustenance. Advertisements plastered the glass storefront, depicting various foodstuffs, smiling humans, and an assortment of numbers which seemed to have monetary meaning. Covered in writing as well, the shop's doors let out a pair of women, both of whom swung plastic bags from their wrists; the tantalizing scent of bread followed them into the street. It occurred to Loki that he hadn't eaten in a very long time.

A breath escaped his lips and floated out into the frosty air. It began to take shape as Dagny entered the store; when it followed her in, moments later, it had a striped suit and piercing blue eyes. Its creator, still outside, allowed a minute to pass before stepping through the doors, himself. He chose a different path than the girl, seeking the doughy fragrance.

His search brought him past a group of bleating machines. They were covered in colorful objects and manned by humans in vests, who collected the items into bags as they rolled down black paths. The bags were presented to others in exchange for coins, paper, and small plastic squares.

_Odd_, Loki thought.

The area beyond the machines was even stranger.

A city of aisles stretched out in either direction, its sweeping shelves reminding him of the library. As his distance from them lessened, he began to realize that they were stocked with food. Boxed, jarred, pressed into metal cans: each vibrant, unfamiliar item was meant to be eaten. He'd attended many a feast on Asgard, been dragged through the kitchens by Thor and Volstagg, but he'd never seen anything like this.

The shelf nearest him held a stack of cardboard boxes, each colored scarlet and adorned with scattered shapes. There was a pyramid of red and white cans beside them. He passed glass containers, filled to bursting with purple liquid, and rows of golden pastries, crammed into plastic packages. Names like "Kraft" and "Quaker" leapt out at him, but he found no meaning in any of them. After six aisles, he still hadn't deemed anything edible.

The seventh aisle was larger, lined with slanted shelves and squat, wooden baskets. Colored spheres spilled out of one; dodging a woman's metal cart, Loki saw more green fruits inside of it. The whole aisle, in fact, was filled with human produce. Fruits were arranged to his left, while an entire row of vegetables grew, green and red and orange, on his right. These foods were not contained in flimsy packaging but still, Loki did not trust them. He had begun to turn away when a burst of crimson caught his eye.

Mere inches from his left elbow was a bushel of gleaming apples. They glinted deliciously in the light and the familiar image sent a terrific ripple through his abdomen. He had little time to think before his fingers snatched one up and then his mouth was filled with the tart, red skin. He swallowed greedily, devouring fruit after fruit, until the sweet taste grew overwhelming. Then he leapt across the aisle for a handful of orange roots.

The vegetables' pleasant crunch assured him that they were indeed carrots, a plant he remembered from childhood. Odin had taken it to Earth a thousand years ago as a gift for the humans who worshipped him. Now, over a millennium later, Loki gorged himself on its brightly colored meat.

_If you only knew, Father_, he thought while he ate.

It took another two handfuls of carrots and three more apples but finally, Loki's hunger abated. He felt as if a haze had cleared from his thoughts and, for the first time in minutes, they fell to something other than eating. They drifted outside of his mind and into the specter's, watching Dagny choose food of her own.

She carried a plastic basket in the crook of her arm and he could tell from the way she walked that it was heavy. Jars, bags, and boxes had been tossed haphazardly into it; he'd seen some of them while exploring, but most of them were as foreign as the rest of the store. The largest bag was a bulky blue thing and, with every step she took, its contents rustled together. He wondered what sort of food it held.

The girl's movements were just as quick, just as cautious, as they'd been on the street. She wound her way through the humans, plucking things from shelves and adding them to her collection. As he watched, she reached for a metal tin on an upper shelf; it was too tall, even for her height, and she struggled for a full minute before her fingers brushed against it. She never asked for help, nor was she offered it.

After a time, Loki began to drift towards her, sliding another apple into his pocket as he left the produce behind. The specter was still watching but, on his command, it strode suddenly from Dagny's aisle and faded into nothing. The girl did not notice its disappearance nor did she look up, moments later, when Loki appeared in its place.

His foot was poised, ready to step into her path, when she turned away from him. He froze, not moving until she'd abandoned the aisle and, even then, he did not follow. Instead, he made his way towards the grocery's glass doors, then glanced back at the row of machines. Dagny stood before one, just as he'd expected, shifting her basket from arm to arm. _She's waiting to pay for her food_, he thought. _That's what the machines do_. As he watched, one of the vested men turned to face her.

"Hello!" He said, enthusiastically. "Did you find everything you were looking for today?"

His voice carried easily over the store's relentless chatter but, discerning the girl's voice took effort. Loki watched her eyes dart away from a shelf of glossy books, resting on her food for a moment, before looking up at the man. "Um, yes," she told him.

He responded with a grin, placing her food onto a black path. "Are you going to be able to carry all this?" He asked, while he worked. "We offer a parcel delivery service, if you're interested."

Her reply was quick: "I'll be fine. I live just around the corner."

She struggled with her bags as they left and, after three steps, her shoulders sagged under their weight: the first part of her answer, it seemed, was an exaggeration. Following her around the corner, however, Loki saw that the second part was true. Her apartment was only five buildings away; another thirty steps and she'd be out of sight.

It occurred to him that he would have to follow her in.

The thought bloomed into a dozen twisted plans, all trying to solve the same problem. Outside, he was a meaningless face of the crowd, invisible even if she saw him. But if he followed her through that door...

"_Goddammit!_"

Loki looked up to see that one of the humans had stepped in a pile of snow, soaking her foot with a dingy, brown liquid. She limped forward, muttering profanities, as the crowd surged around her. Each step left a muddy footprint in her wake.

_Interesting_, Loki thought.

Dagny was steps from her staircase when he threw the apple.

It tumbled through the air, small and bright and scarlet, and landed just outside her door. There was a pulse of light and the tiny fruit morphed into an orb of liquid emerald. Seconds later, Dagny crushed it beneath her boot.

Loki smiled.

He counted to one thousand before following her inside. His steps led him through the door, as easily as if it had been open, and he found himself in a darkened foyer. Hallways stretched out to his left and right, lined by bluish doors, while a marble staircase reared up in front of him. It was covered in brilliant green tracks.

His smile widened.

The second floor landing was the same as the first, but for the doors. They were equal in number and size but, rather than blue, they'd been painted a dull shade of burgundy. On the third floor, they were pink and, on the fourth, they were purple. It was the same all the way to the ninth floor and likely continued after that. Loki lost interest in other doors, though, when the footprints led him down a hallway of green ones.

There was a puddle, larger than the others, outside the second door on the right and two emerald smudges pointing to the third. He imagined the scene as his footsteps slowed: after nine flights, Dagny would have finally looked down to see the paint oozing from her boots. She would have stepped to the right for a better look, widening the track, then bent down to remove the offending footwear. She would have probably stained a grocery bag or maybe even a finger; sure enough, as he approached the third door, he saw a tiny green smudge on its handle.

_Perfect_.

He crept closer, straining his ears for some sound of her. After a moment, he found that the strain was not necessary: her agitated voice drifted clearly out to him.

"- paint everywhere," she was saying. Her tone was frustrated, as it had been last night, and he could imagine her expression as she added, "I knew I shouldn't have gone out. I hope you're happy, Cess."

_Cess_? The name pricked Loki's interest. Those weren't just thoughts she'd spoken aloud - she was talking _to_ someone. Could it be a friend? A roommate? A lover? He leaned forward for the response, hoping to figure out which from their words, their footsteps, their breathing. Unfortunately for him, he heard nothing. The only noise came from Dagny, shuffling her feet over a smooth surface, sighing loudly, and closing something metallic. There was a low rattling sound that he recognized from the grocery - the heavy bag, the big blue one. She was carrying it, jostling its contents again. This sound was followed by a chorus of plinking, then a high-pitched mewl.

Loki frowned. His curiosity hung over him, a thick cloud that only grew larger as more time passed. He'd spent hours trailing her and still knew nothing; she was in this apartment with all of her secrets and, whether 'Cess' was a part of them or not, he needed answers. He needed them _desperately_.

_Patience_, he reminded himself._ Take care not to think like your brother._

Still, in another corner of his mind, he was already planning his entrance. Would it be better to walk calmly through the door and show temperance or to display his power by tearing it apart? Would she comply more easily to gentle questions or violent demands? Would she answer him at all or would she require more magic to see what he needed?

_She's curious_. He remembered his realization from the library.

Another memory flared and his thoughts were eclipsed by an image of her face. He'd watched it carefully the night before, as she looked on his power, as she spoke to the human boys. It had changed, somehow, upon their reply. Her eyes had widened, of course, full of the usual shock and terror. More than this though, she had _broken_. He'd watched her will crumble like burnt wood to ash.

His other thought returned, as well: _But s__he's also afraid_. Perhaps a direct approach would not work in his favor.

_I could _make_ her listen_, he reasoned with himself. _I could keep her from running. I could keep her from breaking_. But the idea was met only by doubt.

He knew too little of her power. She'd refused his influence twice - could she refuse other magic, as well? If he conjured chains, would they hold her? If he willed answers from her lips, would she bite them back? His plans left too much to chance and too much to go wrong; if he wanted her answers, he would have to wait.

_Patience_, his thoughts whispered again. Their voice sounded strangely like his father's.

He sighed.

The staircase seemed longer, somehow, as he approached the building's exit and the hours outside felt colder than they had with the girl in sight. His striped jacket was warm, warmer than a fur-lined cloak, but it was not his body that balked in the wind. What if she did not return? What if she remained in her room all night, all tomorrow, all week? What if she never revealed her truth? What if the memories came back? Ghostly fingers, a mere shade of last night's anguish, brushed his chest for a moment and he swallowed.

_They are only memories_, he told himself.

The sun began to sink before long and, with each of its movements, a new song passed over the city. A symphony of laughter came first from a tide of human children; it was followed by an irritatingly rhythmic beeping which came, slightly different each time, from a line of stopped carriages. The vehicles broke apart eventually and, as they surged forward once more, they began blaring music of their own. Strange melodies pulsed through the ground beneath him as the sky went from navy to black. Still, Loki waited.

It was the only thing he could do.

He breathed a sigh of relief when, an hour later, the door cracked open and Dagny stepped through it. Her hair was neatly plaited and the rough, blue trousers she'd worn earlier were replaced with a dark, draping fabric; he recognized it from last night and guessed that, beneath her coat, she wore an equally familiar black shirt. She was returning to the theater.

His pulse quickened. He'd followed her to the library - to the apartment, to the grocery - but the Lapis was where she'd _seen_ him. She'd defied his magic in its auditorium and refused his influence in its lobby: could the theater hold the truths he sought? The speed of his thoughts was matched only by Dagny's quick footsteps, which were leading him down a road he recognized. His feet avoided a familiar crack in the pavement, then passed the corner where she'd turned to confront him. There, just down the street, was the shop window the boys had haunted. And then, rising up in front of him...

An extraordinary building, painted the oddest shade of blue. It beckoned with its shining, glass doors, each one covered by a picture of the world he'd left behind.

Loki took a breath and, after a moment's pause, he followed Dagny inside.

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**A/N:** Why do _you _think Dagny can see Loki?


	6. Chapter Five

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter. I just got to a thousand views and I'm kind of in awe over that. This chapter is definitely one of my favorites, so far. If you have a minute, let me what you think. Thanks again!

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Chapter Five

The theater had not changed but, without an audience, it felt almost like a new building. Its oceanic frescoes remained magnificent and its gleaming stage demanded attention, even without actors upon it. Still, Loki felt a palpable change in the room's atmosphere. It was no longer marked by the rapt attention of six hundred spectators; hidden in the shadows, he witnessed the informal, the animated, the tenacious. It was a side of the theater he'd never seen and, in the midst of it all, he saw another side of Dagny.

She had not changed physically but, like the theater, her demeanor was undeniably altered. The girl he'd met last night had been reticent, tentative in every mood she made. She'd shone moments of fire - dragging him from the theater, whirling on him in the street - but, more often than not, she'd seemed afraid of being burned. This new person was just as careful, just as quiet, but she flowed through the Lapis with a practiced comfort. It became clear that she was not just a cog in the troupe's machine. She was an _authority_.

"Dagny, I made some last-minute alterations to the cloak, would you mind checking it?"

"Hey Dag, I might need to go over the accent real quick."

"I'm not trying to stress you out, Dagny, but I read online that my character carried a pike and I was wondering..."

The questions echoed through the vast, empty space, spoken by actors and assistants, alike. There were times when he watched her reply, addressing some half-costumed player in the midst of rehearsing a sword fight. Other times, he heard only voices, his attention caught by the mention of her name or her voice's soft melody. Every query was answered with intelligent politeness, given without superiority or presumption. One of the actors, the muscular blond who played Thor, followed her like a lost gosling; his requests for coaching came fast and often yet she showed no sign of annoyance. It was more than Loki could say for himself.

As the hours passed, the troupe grew more and more frantic. One group raised sheets of painted wood onstage while another lowered the velvet curtain. Dagny exited through one of the side doors and a number of people complained about "static." Finally, the lights dimmed and the room went quiet. The audience filed in.

Few of them noticed Loki, seated comfortably in a corner chair, eyes fixed on the theater's third door. Despite their sightlessness, he was no longer hidden by magic; he relied instead on the shadowy darkness that bathed his seat. Waves of humans passed for nearly ten minutes before a man with glasses approached him. The man held a white pamphlet and, when he saw Loki, his lips formed into a gentle smile. "Excuse me," he said. "I think you're in my seat."

"You must be mistaken," Loki answered, quickly. "Your ticket is for tomorrow night."

The man's cheeks turned pink. "Oh god, you're right. That's embarrassing."

"Not to worry." Loki shrugged, about to turn away when his eyes landed on the pamphlet. It was stamped with a colorful portrait, the same as the picture on the doors. "Sir?" he prompted.

The man looked up.

"Since you'll be returning to the theater tomorrow, I don't think you'll be needing that."

"You're right." The man looked at him thoughtfully before stepping closer. "Why don't you take it?"

Loki took the booklet without looking up.

He found what he was looking for as the man hurried off; there, on the second page, was a list of troupe members. The first name was one he remembered, not only from its presence on the poster, but from last night's events: Marcus de la Rocque had confronted Dagny in the lobby. There was another familiar name farther down the page; Claire Robinson was the small girl, the one with the beaded hair.

The name he sought was third from the bottom. "Dagny Tate," it read. "Dramaturge."

_Dramaturge?_

Before he could puzzle long over its meaning, the theater went black all around him. The pamphlet became little more than a blur in his lap, so he turned his attention on the stage. The first scene had begun, just as he remembered, with Odin and Frigga arguing.

"He is not ready!" The queen's actress announced. "You must understand, my husband! Thor is not ready to lead."

_You were always the sensible one, Mother_. He'd had the same thought the night before.

"He will have to be!" The man meant to portray his father was merely a fool in a goat-horned helm. It was impossible to act as the Allfather - no man, especially not a human man, could equal his power and grace - but this actor, he thought, was less suited than most. Last night, the disparity had made him quake with laughter, but now, clearheaded as he was, they just made him think of home.

_He will have to be_. The words echoed in his mind, blocking out the lines that followed. Had Thor finally proven himself, taught humility by his children's tale of a banishment? Had his idiotic destruction of the Bridge shown Odin how _ready_ he was to rule? Was he sitting, even now, upon the throne of Asgard with Father's hand upon his shoulder?

Loki felt a breeze against his neck and realized, with a start, that he had created it.

He felt himself whisked away to a different hall, a memory, that nearly blocked out the humans around him. They were visible if he squinted but, as the colors of Asgard grew brighter, his reality on Earth turned dim. He was left standing in the midst of a familiar scene, still the spectator, watching its story unfold. One play was traded for another and, suddenly, Loki's memory began to speak.

"Thor, what will you do when you're king?" The question came from a female child, balanced precariously on the edge of an enormous staircase. She took one fearless step after the other, looking ridiculous in a gaudy dress and the mail of a grown man. Her hair was tied up with a boot-strap, attempting to hide her girlishness, but two perfect coifs stuck out from the back of her head.

_Sif._

Loki felt himself swallow.

He realized that he was a child as well, peering out from behind a pillar as his brother considered the question. Thor's handsome face was thoughtful - as thoughtful as it ever was - and marked by the same careless confidence that defined his older self. His golden waves glistened in the firelight as he stood, plunging a fist into the air.

"I shall defeat the realm's enemies and never lose a battle!" he cried.

Sif's green eyes turned doubtful and she spun a graceful pirouette before commenting, "Every man must lose _some_ battles."

"Not I!" Thor laughed. "Nor my father. I will be as strong a king as he is and twice as brave."

A smile lit the girl's features as Loki crept forward, dodging through the shadows, to a pillar nearer the stairs. "What of justice?" she asked. "How will you deliver that?"

"I will reward those who do right and send all others to their deaths." Thor grinned as he said it, stalking towards her with playful malice. She stood her ground as he pulled an imaginary sword from his belt. "And you, Sif?" he asked, brandishing the weapon at her. "Will you be loyal to me?"

There was a flash of movement, so quick that Loki barely caught it, and then the girl stood behind Thor. She held a very real dagger in her fist and its silver sheath was pressed into his back. Loki almost laughed aloud before she leaned forward and whispered into his brother's ear. "Always," she breathed.

Loki's smile faded.

"If I were the _queen_," she continued, hiding the knife in the folds of her dress, "I would not concern myself with strength and bravery, as you do. I already know I'm brave and my strength -" She dodged around Thor again and turned three quick cartwheels on the step "- would be something my subjects knew well. But I would not want to be remembered as brave or strong. _I_ would create equality in the realm, so that everyone could be treated fairly, be they Frost Giant or Midgardian. Be they king or kitchen maid." Her eyes narrowed. "Be they _man_ or _woman_."

The pair of blue eyes, watching from the bottom of the staircase, had not blinked once during her speech. They were trained on Sif's face, watching it shift between defiance and sincerity, drinking her words like nectar. _You would make a fine queen_, Loki wanted to tell her. He wanted her to ask him, not Thor, what he would do if he were king.

_If_, his thoughts repeated. _She asked Thor what he would do_ when _he was king._

Thor's sword arm had long since dropped and he did not watch his friend as her voice filled the throne room. There was a moment of silence when she finished speaking and Loki realized, suddenly, that his brother had not been listening. Still, the other boy's face broke into a smile.

"You would make a fine queen," he said.

Sif blushed and Loki tasted something bitter beneath his tongue.

"Answer me one thing, though," Thor continued, unaware of the angry flush creeping up his brother's neck. "Do you really think the _Frost Giants_ deserve equality?"

The girl nodded. "We warred with Laufey over four hundred years ago and, since then there have been no -"

"Four hundred years does not make them _innocent_!" Thor interrupted. "The fear of Odin's wrath is all that keeps them from attacking again!"

"How do you know that?" Sif fired back. "Jotunheim has given us no reason -"

Again, Thor silenced her. "They scorned Father once and they will do it again. They're _monsters_, Sif, every one of them. You must know that."

The flush had climbed up Loki's chin now and was making its way towards his cheeks. He could feel it there, burning with a rage he did not quite understand. The Frost Giants meant little to him and, given the chance, he was not sure if even he would grant them true equality. Still, his brother's words sent a fiery poison coursing through his veins. He felt himself step forward until the candlelight brushed his face.

"I guess you're right." The girl's legs folded and she dropped, hard, onto the top step. Thor crouched too, leaning forward to meet her gaze.

"That does not mean you should fear them," he told her. "I will be king one day and I will kill them all, I swear it."

"That's not -"

"And then I will return from that icy Hell to my beautiful queen." He took her hand. "And, together, we will complete her dream of equality in all the realms."

"Thor," Sif started to say. Her expression stayed distraught for just a moment before, at the same time as Loki, she grasped the implication of his words. "Thor!" she repeated and her eyes grew soft. "That is...are you...do you mean..."

What exactly Thor meant was never clear because, at that moment, a deafening boom shook the throne room. Furious bolts of lightning crackled against the ceiling, forking down within inches of the staircase, and the shape of a man appeared inches from the children. It grew to ten feet, twenty feet, thirty feet, brighter and brighter, until it solidified into a blinding figure, encased in light.

Sif shrieked.

"Thor, son of Odin!" The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, both at once. It was deep as a cavern, echoing off the walls, reverberating through the children's minds as if it spoke from within them, as well. The man shape turned to address the boy, flaming suns where its eyes should've been.

"Y-yes?" Thor stuttered, beginning to step backwards before he remembered himself.

"It is I, Odin, King of Asgard, in my natural form." A burning crown winked into existence on his forehead. "And you have displeased me greatly, my son."

There came another cacophonous boom and, this time, Sif's dagger clattered to the floor. Its song joined the pounding echos and the hiss of the lightning and, when the girl backed away, Thor stepped in front of her.

"Father," he pleaded. His attempt to sound mature was obvious, but a crack in his voice betrayed him on the second syllable. "Whatever I have done to wrong you, I swear I -"

"You may not apologize!" The god returned. "You speak falsely of our loyal subjects. You plot to murder them when you become king. You must be punished!"

Behind the pillar, Loki's heart hammered. Beads of sweat dripped down his face as he stared, without blinking, at the fiery king. His hands rose and fell in complicated patterns, glowing faintly in the blanket of darkness.

"You are not fit to be king!" Odin shouted and, at the root of the great rumbling, there was a small voice that sounded like Loki's.

"Father," Thor repeated, oblivious. His tone was now colored by a crippling despair and all traces of confidence had gone. He was a broken boy, a begging dog, a mewling baby. "Father, I don't understand. I only spoke in jest, I did not mean -"

"Silence!" The king shouted and Thor was silent.

Inky clouds began to swirl against the ceiling, turning gray with each flash of lightning. Terrifying noises escaped them, adding maniacal laughter and desperate wailing to the evil symphony of the storm. A scarlet funnel of wind escaped from its center and began to drop, sinking lower and lower, until it was inches from Thor's face...

"_What is going on in here?_"

The abrupt shout startled Loki and, suddenly, the room was quiet. The blood-stained wind disappeared, followed by the flickering lightning, and then the blazing king faded to nothing. At the top of the staircase, Thor turned to face his friend, failing in the attempt to hide his fear. This was the last thing Loki saw before locking eyes with his mother.

"Loki!" Her exclamation rang through the hall, not as loud as the false Odin's, but infinitely more threatening. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I..." His tongue turned to lead in his mouth and his lips felt rubbery; despite all the noise he'd just made, he was not strong enough to answer her.

The queen found meaning in his silence, though, and nodded before wrapping her hand around his shoulder. Her fingers were firm but gentle as she dragged him into the light.

"Loki?" Thor remained at the top of the stairs, looking confused; when he caught sight of his brother, he seemed at even more of a loss. "What's going on?" he asked, dumbly. "Where has Father gone?"

But Sif understood. Her eyes narrowed into a glare as she looked down at him, pointedly reaching for her dagger.

"The King is with his councillors," Frigga explained to her eldest. "What you saw was a false idol, a magical concoction, a creation of -"

"Loki." Thor's face finally brightened, replacing terror and ignorance with a myriad of new emotions. Surprise was first, then betrayal, then hurt; shame came next as he remembered his reaction to the storm. There was a brief flash of something thoughtful - awe, perhaps - and then he settled on anger. "Brother," he demanded. "Why did you do this?"

The throne room held its breath but, once again, Loki was without a reply. He did not understand his actions any more than Thor did and, if he could not explain them to himself, he doubted he could explain them to anyone else. He wondered if it was better not to try or if refusing to answer would just make everything worse. Before he could come to a decision, the queen made one for him.

"Come, my son," she commanded.

She kept her hand on his shoulder as they walked through the throne room's gilded doors, then into the courtyard beyond. They passed beneath a cloudless sky, but Loki's thoughts still stormed. He wondered where his mother would take him; perhaps the dungeon would be an appropriate punishment but, if he was to be thrown in a dark cell, would he have to face his father first? He hoped not. He dared not imagine what King Odin would say.

_Why did you do this?_ Thor's voice echoed in his ears.

He still did not know.

It was a long time before the queen's grip halted him and, even then, she kept her face blank. He'd been stealing glances at her for some time, but the mask did not slip; be it anger, shame, or compassion, no emotion was hidden in her eyes. A large, wooden door stood before them and, still, she did not react. The only indication that she'd noticed was the tiny twitch of her fingers, the slight increase in pressure that bid him stop.

Loki did not recognize the entrance, but that fact meant little to him. There were many doors in the palace, many of them as plain and black as this one, and some existed only once or twice a year. He'd explored some of them - more than Thor ever had, to be sure - but he had not lived long enough to open them all. If his father stood behind this one, he was not sure he ever would.

"Open it," his mother urged.

He took a breath...

_Why did you do this?_ Thor asked.

...and opened the door.

It swung forward with barely a whisper and he found himself in a modest, stone chamber. A single candle glowed in its center, brightening the walls with a tiny, yellow flame. Droplets of wax pooled onto a sandstone table; this was the room's only decoration and looked so much like the walls and floor that he almost didn't notice it. There were no windows or chairs, nor any scattered items to indicate the room's purpose. Loki didn't mind this, though: it did not contain his father and that was all that mattered.

He breathed a sigh of relief. "Is this to be my cell, Mother?"

The queen remained behind him, still gripping his shoulder, but, as he turned toward her, a twinge of emotion crossed her face. Her lips parted slightly and her eyes widened in surprise; it was the same look Thor had when he was confused. "Your what?" she asked, after a moment.

"My prison cell," Loki clarified, patiently. "Is this where I'll be imprisoned?"

Now that he faced the stone room, empty of his father, he felt a strange calm sweep over him. He had attacked his elder brother and used powerful magic without permission; it was obvious that he would be punished, but at least he would never need to explain.

_Why did you do this?_

Perhaps it would never matter.

But his mother's mask had finally cracked and the thoughts written on her face told him otherwise. He could see that she understood now, was no longer confused by his question, but there was a more complicated emotion in her glistening, blue eyes. _Empathy_, he realized.

"Loki." The queen's voice was gentle as she finally released her hold on him. With the heel of her palm, she urged him deeper into the room. "Please sit down."

"But there are no..." He trailed off when he saw the two sandstone chairs, positioned on either side of the table.

"I admit," Frigga began, passing him to take the farthest seat, "That I am hardly your equal at conjuring. A simple room in an empty wing of the castle, a pair of rough chairs - I cannot begin to imagine how much power it takes to create a whole _person_." She waited for him to sit before adding, "It was very impressive. I'm sure your father would agree."

It was all Loki could do to keep from squirming beneath her gaze. He did not understand his mother's actions and he did not understand her words; all he knew was that, for some reason, he had not yet been punished. Did that mean that Odin was coming, after all?

"Are you going to tell Father?" he asked.

"Would you like me to?"

He shook his head.

"Then no, I won't tell him."

The queen was silent for a time, regarding his expression over the tips of her fingers. There were several moments in which she seemed about to speak but, each time, she stopped herself and simply smiled at him. He was about to beg her forgiveness, just to break the silence, when she finally opened her mouth. "Loki," she said. "I'm going to tell you a story and I want you to listen very carefully. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mother."

"Good." She took a breath before beginning and, for a moment, he was worried that they would lapse into quiet again. Then she started to speak:

"Once, long before you were born, there was a great war between the realms. There were many battles and many lives were lost but, after the war was over, there was a time of great peace. It was during this time that a soldier and his wife bore a son named Egill.

Egill was only a boy, but he was one of the greatest swordsmen the realm had ever known. He defeated anyone who dared to challenge him, even men triple his age, and it was not long before powerful men took notice."

Loki's mind swam with memories but he did not interrupt his mother.

"Since Egill was born during peacetime, he could not use his skills in true battle. Instead, he took part in tournaments, where he competed with other young swordsmen. Those who hosted the tournaments did so under the belief that warriors should keep ever prepared and that the glory of war should be kept from no one, even during peace.

Many of the boys fought with sharp, beautiful weapons, believing that their swords, not their hands, won them tourneys. These blades were sharp enough to shave a man's beard and they gleamed in the sunlight, like ice. Egill, however, had only the sword his father left him. It was chipped and dulled from use in war but, with it, he defeated all others. Still, he lusted after their blades.

One day, he won a large sum of money and, with it, decided to forge the greatest sword in all existence. He acquired a master blacksmith and demanded a weapon of nine elements, one from each of the nine realms. The blacksmith worked tirelessly for three years, using jötunn ice, Midgardian steel, and seven other materials, before he strengthened the creation in the Sea of All Seas. Finally, the weapon was made and presented to Egill."

The queen's eyes remained on the candle as she spoke but Loki's drifted about the empty room. He knew this story, had heard it a thousand times, and he knew what was coming next.

"If he was unstoppable with his father's blade, Egill was pure _magic_ with the new sword. He was told to fight fifty challengers at once and came through without a scratch. He brought down a fifty-foot giant with a single strike. The lords of the realm began to create new tasks just for him - fighting bilgesnipe, trolls, even krakens. The sword defeated many monsters but, even so, it began to cause trouble for its master."

Loki began to squirm in his chair and the motion drew his mother's eye.

"Is something wrong?" she asked him.

He paused before speaking, worried that his interruption would anger her. "It's just that I know this story," he said.

"Tell me the rest, then."

Loki frowned, suddenly embarrassed. "Well," he started. "Thieves never wanted the old sword because it was so dull and ugly. It was safe for Egill to leave it unattended and he did so many times, without consequence. The new blade was said to be magical, though, and men crept into his room at night, trying to steal it. Eventually, he could not sleep at all, for fear that they would succeed."

"What next?" the queen asked.

"His father's blade was dull enough that a man could hold it in hand without being cut. The master sword was not so. When he returned to his village, his young niece reached for it and, hardly touching the surface, lost three of her fingers."

_Why does she bid me speak fairytales?_ he wondered as he recounted the story. _When will I learn of my punishment?_

His discomfort did not seem to phase the queen "What, last of all?" she asked, pointedly.

"While attending a tournament in a distant realm, Egill fell in love with an elfin princess. He promised to marry her upon his return but, once his new sword was made, he was bid to perform in a hundred tourneys. Finally, after winning them all, he travelled the many worlds to see her. When he looked on her face, though, he found it to be less beautiful than the face of his sword. He refused to wed her and she fell into such despair that the grief of it killed her. Her royal father was so furious that he used Egill's own sword to slay him. After he was dead, his weapon was tossed into the Sea of All Seas. It was thought to be cursed." He paused. "That's all, I think."

Queen Frigga raised her eyebrows at him in a silent question that he did not understand. He felt as if he should say something else, as if he should have learned some lesson, but he could not imagine what. The tale meant little enough in consideration of his crime. He was quiet for a full minute before his mother asked, "What does the story tells us?"

He swallowed. "That we should accept what we have and not be prideful?"

Frigga nodded. "It does tell us that, yes. But it has another message." She leaned forward, her long curls brushing the candle wax, peering carefully into his eyes. "It was not so much a fault that Egill made the sword, for many great weapons have gone on to do many great things. The story tells us that the wielder of such power must be vigilant, careful, and humble. The wielder of great power must also wield great responsibility. Do you understand?"

Immediately, Loki nodded. Then, at a look from his mother, he shook his head.

"The way you used your magic today was very irresponsible," the queen explained, smiling grimly. "You possess great power, Loki - far greater than most - but that does not give you the right to hurt others." She held up a hand at his protest. "_Or_ to scare them," she amended, "Because, in truth, terror is a form of pain."

"I'm sorry, Mother," Loki replied. He thought about the words after he spoke and realized that he meant them. He was beginning to understand why she'd told him the story.

"It is not me who deserves your apology." The queen did not look wholly satisfied and seemed no closer to revealing his punishment. "Do you know why you would want to attack Thor?"

_Why did you do this?_ His brother's words leapt back into his mind but it occurred to him that this was not what she'd asked.

"No," he told her, truthfully. "I don't know why."

"Are you jealous of your brother, Loki?"

The question was so sudden, asked so gently, that he had no time to consider an answer before one bubbled from his throat. He might have told her that, as a royal prince, it was his duty to be proud of his elder brother; he might have spoken of the times he'd cheered for Thor or about the 'brotherly bond' that would always connect them. These ideas, though, were not the ones that escaped his lips. It was just one word, his reply, and it took more effort to speak than a thousand lies.

"Yes," he admitted. And then, "But that's not why I did it, not _really_. I was angry, Mother. He spoke of his future as king and it made me angry."

"What was it that he said?"

Loki frowned, thinking. "He said that he would defeat all of his enemies," he remembered. "And that he would never lose a battle. He said that he would be as strong as Father and twice as brave." _He said that he would marry Sif._ "He said that he would make all the realms equal." He swallowed. "And that he would...that he would kill all the Frost Giants."

There was a sharp intake of breath and, at first, Loki thought that he'd made the sound. One glance at across the table, though, and he realized that the noise had come from the queen. He watched her smother her shock, noticed the spasm of pain that she couldn't quite hide, and it seemed to him that she was as affected by the statement as he'd been. In that moment, he finally understood his actions.

_Why did you do this?_

"I did not act out of jealousy." He explained slowly, finally, to himself as much as to her. "I was angered by Thor's words and thought that he would be an unfit king. I wanted him to understand that. I was trying to tell him."

Queen Frigga's pain dissolved into a sad smile.

"My son," she said. "I am proud of you. It is a wise and brave prince who understands his own mind. Your actions were irresponsible but, above all, you acted out of love for the realm. For that, I cannot punish you."

His jaw fell open before he could stop it. He did not dare believe his ears, nor the thrill of hope that rushed through his veins. It was impossible, unbelievable, too good to be true. _No punishment?_ He tried to find the lie in her eyes.

"Loki." He heard nothing false in the way she spoke his name, though, nor in the question that followed. "Do _you_ want to be king?"

"No," he told her. "I don't think I do."

"Then what is it you want?"

"I want Father to be proud of me" was the first desire he listed. The others came slower, after some reflection, but Frigga didn't seem to mind. "I want to be responsible with my power. I want Thor to be a just king, who brings peace to the realm without destroying Jotunheim. I want to help him do it. And..." He paused for a moment, trying to find the right words. "I want to be Thor's equal." That wish, it seemed, made everything feel final.

"Sometimes," his mother told him. "Magic is not the best way to get what we want."

* * *

An unfamiliar scene was taking place on the stage and Loki had forgotten where he was. The chair beneath him was velvet, not sandstone, and the room he sat in was lavishly ornate; there was no sign of his mother or childhood self, but there were six hundred humans in their places. His eyes were dry and stinging and he felt power-weary, weak, as if he'd used too much magic at once. Had he used magic at all?

_A different sort of magic_, he realized. _I've been dreaming._

He wasn't sure when mere memory had turned into slumber but he recognized it now, this strange sluggishness that made his thoughts run together and his eyelids feel heavy. The remaining tendrils of sleep kept their hold on him, diverting his attention, until the performance ended and the humans began to applaud. The sound made him remember.

_Dagny._

Members of the crowd rose all around him, gathering pamphlets and coats into their arms. They squeezed past his seat with many apologies, though some did not address him at all; he hardly noticed their passing, so focused was he on the third door and the figure beside it. He watched her hair light up again and again, turning red in the glow from the lobby, before the stream of humans dwindled and she slipped out after them. An idea entered his mind, then. Perhaps it had always been there.

Deafening chatter filled the Lapis, hundreds of conversations that twisted themselves into a jumble of meaningless words. He waited for a lull before leaving his seat; when he finally entered the lobby, he found only a dozen groups, conversing softly in their scattered corners. The group nearest him had started to disband and, with immense pleasure, Loki realized that he knew one of its members. The man stood just yards away, waving farewell to the others as they made for the doors.

"It was nice to see you, Marcus!" one of them called.

_Well_, Loki thought. _That was simple._

A command readied itself on his lips and he took a step towards the director. _Words_, he reminded himself. He would preform one final trick, one minor act of influence, and then Marcus would summon the girl. It would be _words_, not magic, that unburied her secrets.

The director turned to face him. "Can I help you with something?

"Actually," Loki replied. "You can."

* * *

Did you like the flashback? What do you think Loki's plan is? Feel free to comment and let me know. Much love!


	7. Chapter Six

**A/N: **Hello friends! I know it's been quite a while since I updated and, to those of you who've been waiting with bated breath, I'm very sorry! I recently discovered Doctor Who...hopefully some of you will understand how time-consuming such an obsession can be. Again, I have to thank everyone who read and reviewed my other chapters - I love you all so much! Those of you who commented, telling me I just _needed_ to update, really inspired me to pause Netflix and put my nose to the grindstone. As always, if you're reading this, you are my hero. If you send me a review or a PM, you will also be my hero. My SUPER hero.

On a side note, I start school today. As a result, my updates may be a little slower. I apologize for that and I will try very, very hard to keep up with this story - I love it just as much as you guys and I can't wait to see what happens either.

So, anyway, thank you very, very, very, very, very, very much for reading and I wish you a Loki-filled day.

* * *

Chapter Six

The command was simple and indefinite. It did not rob the human of his will nor did it shape his lips into words he would not say. It did not force him to reveal secrets, be they Dagny's or his own, nor did it demand that the girl be presented. The magic required was minor, a basic trick of manipulation, and it affected only one aspect of the director's mind.

"You wish to talk with me," Loki said.

Marcus was suddenly interested.

He began to speak, introducing himself, offering welcome to the theater in a slightly musical voice. Vague replies did not offend him, but compliments spurred him on; he responded to them humbly and credited the troupe, not his role in it, with "reinventing" the modern myth. "The actors," he enthused. "The designers, the crew, and - of course - Michael Browning. We couldn't have done _anything_ without him and his research. He gave us so much to work with. We still had to do a fair amount ourselves, but that was thanks to our dramaturge."

The word caught in Loki's mind and his polite expression changed.

"Forgive me," he interrupted, bashfully. "But would you mind explaining what a dramaturge does? I've never understood."

To his surprise, Marcus laughed. "You would not believe how often I'm asked that," he replied. "I guess it's just not a term you hear outside the theater. Dramaturges are in charge of research. You wouldn't want to put on a play that was inaccurate, so it's the dramaturge's job to study setting, culture, speech, historical events - that sort of thing - so you can portray everything correctly. It's different in every theater, but ours is like my first mate. My right hand woman. You might've seen her around tonight, she's also one of the ushers."

A thousand thoughts swam through Loki's mind, colliding and connecting like pieces of an unfinished puzzle. He understood now why the troupe had bombarded her with questions, why she'd seemed so comfortable within the library's shelves. The most important question remained, but he could feel its answer at his fingertips. _Soon_, he thought.

"I believe I saw her name in this book." He pretended to remember, raising the pamphlet. "Dagny, was it?"

The director nodded. "That's her. She's brilliant. Outstanding."

"She did great work."

"_Phenomenal_ work," Marcus corrected. "I would've been lost without her. _Gardians_ is one of my first originals, not to mention, it's based off a best-seller. There was an unbelievable amount of pressure, but Dagny made it feel like a walk in the park."

Loki smiled, politely.

"She'd hate me for bragging like this, but hiring her was one of the better choices I've made. Two years ago, she came in here asking for a job, and I told her she could start as an usher and work her way up. It wasn't ten days before she was helping with dialects - we were doing _Fiddler on the Roof_ then - and talking period style to the costume crew. When I asked her about it, she started apologizing, talking about how she didn't want to 'overstep her boundaries' or 'mess with my vision.' I promoted her on the spot." He grinned. "She's funny, that girl. Her parents were all set to send her to medical school, got her to pass an entrance exam and everything. One day, she told them she preferred linguistics, packed up, and hopped a plane out of Portland. It's probably a good thing, too. She realized later that she can't _stand_ the sight of blood. She's...well, actually, she's right over there. _Dagny!_"

Footsteps started behind them, almost inaudible as they brushed the star-speckled carpet. The director was waving, watching over his shoulder as she approached, but Loki did not move. He did not react to her appearance beside him nor did he acknowledge her passing glance; as her eyes skirted over him, he felt his heartbeat slow. He had not drawn her notice.

_Not yet._

Once she'd passed him, Loki allowed himself to look up. He watched her feet first, coming to a halt before Marcus, one of them tapping a staccato beat into the floor. Next, he watched her hands, which wrung themselves together in a mess of pale fingers. Finally, he watched her face, noticing the slight twitch of her brow and the way her lips parted in preparation for speech. Before she could say anything, however, Marcus spoke for her.

"There you are, Dagny!" he crowed. "I've just met a _wonderful_ man who's very interested in the work you do. This is Bryant Parkson."

Bryant Park was a plot of land bordering the library, but neither human noted this coincidence. Marcus simply grinned, glancing from his employee to his new acquaintance, while Dagny turned slowly with her eyes on her hands. She began to lift one as she stepped towards him and then, finally, she looked up.

Her hand froze.

Color drained from her face like wine from an upturned chalice, emphasizing the brightness in her wide, green eyes. She seemed almost to shrink and, though she turned towards the director, looked unwilling or unable to tear her gaze from Loki. One of her hands clenched into a fist while the other, still extended between them, hung forgotten in the empty space. She stared at him, terrified. He smiled.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Dagny."

The girl gave no answer, nor any indication that she'd heard him save for a sudden flinch. It was what Loki had expected, part of his plan, but it was clearly not a part of the director's. After two seconds had passed, Marcus looked confused; after eight, the crease between his brows became a canyon.

"Dagny?" he asked, hesitantly. "Are you alright?"

He reached out to touch her shoulder and, suddenly, her petrified body broke into motion. She gave a violent start before blinking; it was another moment before she opened her eyes and turned them on the director. Loki could see every desperate question written on her face, but the one she asked him was, "What did you say?"

The human tried not to show his relief, smothering it with an apologetic glance at Loki. "Honestly," he chuckled. "I was introducing you to one of our guests, Bryant Parkson. He was wondering if you'd tell him a bit about dramaturgy."

Dagny frowned. When she looked at the director, Loki could _see_ the loyalty his plan relied on; when her gaze slid to him, however, it showed uncertainty, discomfort, and a hint of the terror that had shattered her before. This last emotion was worrisome, especially now, at the crux of his plot. Without changing his expression, he willed her to say the right words.

Dagny opened her mouth.

_Say it_, Loki urged. _Please. Do not let me down._

Reluctantly, she met his eyes and choked out, "It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Parkson."

_Thank you._

Marcus looked satisfied. "I was just telling Mr. Parkson how so many people are unfamiliar with your job these days," he explained.

"And, of course, how skilled _you_ are at what you do," Loki added, careful to smile at the director as he spoke. This exchange was not lost on Dagny; her eyes bounced from friend to stranger, still doubtful. The doubt, though, was beginning to change to something else.

"Thank you," she said, slowly. "That's kind of you to say."

When she did not offer much else, Marcus suggested that she tell "Mr. Parkson" about her research on _Gardians_. It took a long time for her stiff, nervous words to form a sentence but, after a series of stuttered thoughts and furtive glances at Loki, her speech was mostly coherent. While she was by no means comfortable, she seemed able to accept his presence. Her constant glances at Marcus slowed until she hardly looked at him at all.

Instead, she looked at the carpet, at the ceiling, at her hands; at anything, but the two men in front of her. As she realized that neither one was invisible, her pale cheeks began to flush and her soft words came faster. She spoke of library books and interviews, of learning a language and understanding its accents, of trips that sounded lengthy, though Loki could not be sure. At times, she seemed unsure what to say and grew gradually quieter until Marcus urged her on. Through all of it, Loki nodded politely, waiting for one of two things: a clue to her secrets or a way to complete his plan. The latter came first.

_She is passionate_, he realized, listening to her descriptions of the play's characters. _Passionate for men and women whom I know, personally._

For the first time in minutes, he readied himself to speak.

"One of the decisions," the girl was saying, "That he - Marcus - had to make and that I researched for was whether or not to include the völva. A völva is, basically, like a -"

"Prophet," Loki supplied. "A seeress."

Dagny sputtered, taken aback by his interruption. "Exactly," she agreed, after a moment. "So, the völva pops up in a lot of Germanic mythology but, most famously, when she tells Odin about Ragnarök, which is, basically, this huge battle and -"

"The end of the world," Loki cut her off again, smiling.

"Yes," Dagny answered, more than surprised. "That's what Browning's book is based on. And we - Marcus and I - thought it would be dramatic to have a scene of the prophecy because, well, prophecies are common in myths but, today, even in Browning's book, they don't come up too often. But imagine how Odin would feel, knowing this battle was coming and that he was going to die fighting it, and then Ragnarök _does_ happen. And there's opportunity for character development because the völva keeps asking him -

"Do you still seek to know?"

The girl stopped speaking and raised her eyebrows, looking both startled and bemused. "You know about the völva," she observed.

"I do."

"And Ragnarök."

"That, as well."

"Are you..." she trailed off. "Do you know anything else about the Norse gods?"

"Indeed. I confess, they're something of a hobby for me."

Marcus let out a crow of excitement. "For Dagny, too!" he exclaimed. "She's been pretty intense about them since the show started. It's almost like they're her family or something."

"Imagine that," Loki said.

Dagny was flushing. "Not my _family_," she muttered. "They're just interesting is all."

"Don't I know it," Marcus agreed. "The gods aren't going to clean my theater, though. I'm sure you won't mind having this conversation without me." He gave the girl a sharp look; ignoring her stuttered response, he turned back to Loki and added, "It was nice meeting you. Please come back soon." He did not pause for a response before vanishing suddenly into a group of stage hands.

For a moment, there was silence.

It hung between Loki and Dagny, separating them from the chattering bustle of the lobby. The only sound was a muffled tapping, the noise her shoe made when it pressed into the carpet. With every passing second, the rhythm increased; when she finally opened her mouth to speak, its beating was quick as a human heart's.

"Well..."

The word was soft and inconclusive, meant more to break the silence than anything else, but Loki pretended not to notice. "Well?" he asked.

"_So_," the girl amended. "Um, Norse gods?"

"Norse gods." Loki smiled, watching her fumble with her plait, waiting for her eyes to drop from the ceiling. He considered a series of statements, wondering if her attention would be best caught by knowledge or kindness or flattery. He could return their conversation to the play but, without Marcus, would he be able to prompt her from a standstill? He could offer his thoughts on the show, but he was not sure the human legends matched the truths of his realm. Worse, what if he offended her? He could praise her skill again - or perhaps her appearance - but the effort might make her uncomfortable. In the end, he decided on a combination.

"I quite enjoyed your play," he began. "But I've one question."

Dagny barely met his gaze before looking away. "Yes?" she asked.

"Are you aware that Odin never wore goat horns?"

There was a sudden peal of laughter and, for a moment, Loki could not believe his eyes. The girl had been staring at the ground, a jumble of nerves and awkward wordlessness, but now, a chorus of bell-like giggles poured from her lips. She looked at him, directly into his eyes, and laughed again. "_I'm_ aware," she said, bashfully. "Our former costume designer, not so much."

"That's a relief." Loki's grin widened. "I thought I'd have to rescind my compliment."

"I was hoping it wasn't as bad as I thought," Dagny giggled.

"It was bad."

She met his grin, for the first time, with a genuine smile of her own. "I know. Anyway, you, um, you said mythology is one of your hobbies?"

"Germanic mythology, yes," Loki told her.

"The Norse gods are definitely my favorites," she agreed. "You hear a lot about Greek and Roman and maybe, Egyptian or Native American. That's what I think, anyway. And all those are interesting, but who decided that Thor and Odin and Lo-" She swallowed, still having to force the name out. "_Loki._ Who decided that they weren't important? Maybe that's why I like them so much. Because I was never really exposed to them. But that's just what I think. What about you?"

Loki did not answer immediately, considering her words before he spoke any of his own. Modern humanity knew nothing of Asgard; did the girl's knowledge give her power against him? _That is not how magic works_, he decided. _And, even if it was, Marcus knows the same myths and he could not see me_. The information in Dagny's speech, though intriguing, was utterly useless; this only strengthened his determination as he watched her. She was no longer tapping her foot and, though her eyes moved over the lobby, they occasionally collided with his._ She's interested_, he realized. _Interested in these human legends, interested in my answer, interested in me_. Finally, he'd caught her, manipulated her into talking, and all without magical influence. But that only brought him back to the question: what made her immune?

"I've always known of the gods," he said, finally, truthfully.

Dagny blinked. "Oh. Well, maybe they just don't teach them in the United States. Britain is much closer to Scandinavia so, of course, it would make sense that you studied them."

"Britain?" Loki asked, curious.

"Sorry!" Her reply was a squeak. "I didn't mean to assume. I just thought...your accent."

"No harm done." He was unable to explain his way of speaking, so he gave her a shrug. "I was not taught of the gods in _Britain_. I was taught by my - my parents."

He stopped, swallowing a wave of sudden anguish, but the girl did not seem to notice. She was flustered, blushing in spite of his reassurance, but she brightened at his words. "Your parents?" she asked. "Do they practice _Ásatrú_?"

Loki nodded. "In a way."

"That's so cool!" The sound of shoes hitting the carpet came again but, this time, the girl hardly looked nervous; she was hopping from foot to foot, unable to contain her excitement. "You must know so much more than I do!"

"It's possible," he replied.

"Could you, I mean, would you mind - " She cut off, words fading into a deep breath. "Would it be alright if I asked you some questions? You obviously don't have to answer if you don't want to and I won't ask you anything personal, anyway. I just don't know when I'll meet another _ǫ́ss_."

Loki felt a grin spread across his face. "Well," he said, purposely glancing at the door.

Dagny followed his gaze and squeaked again. "I'm sorry! I'm sure you have more important things to do than discuss mythology with strangers."

"Not at all." Loki caught her eyes and held them. "I was only wondering: are you able to leave the theater?"

"Am I..." She trailed off, looking confused. Then, "Oh! Um, yes. I'm off work. I would just have to tell Marcus I'm leaving and get my things and -"

"Would you like to accompany me to a cafe?" He paused, repeating the name of a restaurant he'd seen outside. "And then I will tell you whatever you wish to know."

The flush creeping up Dagny's neck was different, somehow, than the others he'd seen. "Um," she said. "Okay. Yeah. Let me get my coat."

Three minutes later, she followed him from the theater.

* * *

The cafe was small and bright, filled by people and tables and the indistinct murmur of a dozen conversations. Golden orbs twirled from the ceiling, alternatively casting shadows across Dagny's face and drawing rich colors from her hair. She barely seemed to notice them as she led Loki down an aisle, her eyes fixed on the large, square window that spanned the room. Beyond its glass, more lights twinkled and the endless crowd of humans surged past.

"Is this okay?" Dagny asked, gesturing to an empty table.

"It's perfect." Loki reached for one of the chairs, hoping to offer it to her, but he'd barely touched its surface when she dropped into a seat of her own. Changing tactics, he sat as well, watching her examine her hands and shrug the jacket from her shoulders. She looked up once and flushed when their eyes met.

"Well," she said, softly.

"_So_," he replied.

There was a moment of silence in which her face broke into a grin and he smiled back, waiting for her to speak. Before she could, however, a woman in an apron appeared beside them.

"Welcome to Lolita's," the woman said in a bored voice. "I'll be your waitress tonight. What can I get you?"

Dagny glanced at Loki before replying, "Can I have a coffee?"

"Milk?

"Yes, please."

"Sugar?"

"Yes, please."

The woman turned her gaze on Loki and, for a single second, he felt panic rush through him. He knew so little of this planet's dietary customs and, if he made the wrong order, his entire plan might unravel; he needed the waitress to notice him, but he couldn't risk seeming inhuman. _If Dagny flees now..._ It took him a moment, frantically recalling the grocery store, to realize how idiotic his worries were.

"I'll have the same," he told the waitress.

_What else would I have?_

Ignorant to his internal dilemma, the woman barely waited for his order to depart. She was back within a minute, however, lugging a large, silver basin and a pair of chipping teacups. She slapped the cups down before the girl, poured something dark into each of them, and pushed one across the table to Loki. The liquid released a strange, pungent odor and he felt his nose wrinkle: what was this human substance? Confusion lingered on his face for only a moment; as the waitress left again, he turned his attention onto Dagny. "So," he repeated. "You have questions for me."

"Um, yes." The words were hardly more than a breath as she sipped her steaming drink; she sputtered, swallowing too quickly, and coughed before addressing him again. "I do," she said, at last. "I was, well, like I said, you don't have to answer anything you don't want to."

"Like _I_ said," he replied. "I will tell you whatever you wish to know."

Dagny bit her lip.

"What are your questions?"

She looked up, across the cafe, watching the other humans as they laughed and chattered at tables of their own. A pair of voices - a male and a female - were disagreeing on the location of Central Park; Dagny followed the speakers with her eyes, watching the man, then the woman, as they argued. "I put a lot of research into _Gardians_," she said, after a moment. "But there were some myths I couldn't find verification of. Some stories were hard to understand or only popped up once and I wanted to know, I guess, if you knew about any of them. If they're... not _true_, per say, but accurate representations of what the Germanic people believed. Or, at least, what your parents believe."

Loki nodded. "Which stories?" he asked.

"Well." With scarcely a breath, she launched herself into a series of questions, watching him, unblinking, each time he attempted to answer. She asked him if Týr, god of the sky, was truly one-handed - he was - and if Baldr, the hero, was really a son of Frigga - he was not. She told him of the trouble she'd had, translating a particular poem, and how the lines had claimed Bragi as a true-born brother of Thor; Loki explained, with an anecdote of his own, that this was not the correct interpretation. The girl's queries came, at first, with lengthy explanations, personal stories that explained why she didn't know the truth or, at least, why she wanted to; as more and more of them were answered, though, she simply began to ask. Simply, as well, Loki answered. "That's true," he would say. Or, "That's false."

The girl's second drink was almost empty when she began to speak of Loki.

"That's what I love about mythology," she was saying, in reply to one of his statements. "The way it explains things. Someone must've said once, 'Hey, why can cats walk so quietly?' and then someone else said, 'The dwarves _stole_ the sound of a cat's footfall to make their magic ribbon.' And then you get the story of Gleipnir. That's just one of my favorite parts." She paused and, for the first time in nearly twenty minutes, stumbled over her words. "I also, um, well, in Norse mythology, I also really liked the character of, um, Loki."

She reached for her coffee and Loki noticed that her knuckles had gone white, that she was clenching them tighter than she needed to. _Why did she say that?_ he wondered, hopefully. Was she trying to be honest, to be friendly? Was she testing herself, purposely speaking of the invisible man to a stranger who looked his twin? _Perhaps both_, he thought; still, he knew that her statement, uttered so nervously, meant something else as well. Something very, very good.

"Do you have any questions of Loki?" he asked.

"Um." She looked down and into the remains of her odd, dark drink. "Yes."

_Good_, Loki thought. _Almost there_. "Tell me."

For a moment, the only reply was the squeak of her finger, tracing a pattern into the side of her cup. Then, without looking up, she blurted, "Did he really transform himself into a woman and consort with human men?"

The question was so startling, so incongruent with the girl's tone, that Loki laughed without meaning to. "Not that _I'm_ aware," he told her, chuckling. "That's false."

"Okay." Dagny lifted her eyes, the ghost of a smile on her face. "What do you think about, um, Loki fighting on the side of the Jötunn in Ragnarök?"

Quickly as they'd come, all traces of Loki's humor evaporated and, sudden as snowfall, he felt himself darkening. Familiar emotions - anger, loneliness, indignation - returned and, as he tried desperately to bottle them, he sensed the girl's gaze. He had not expected her to ask that; still, he had known to be prepared. He had to answer.

"No." It was a struggle to keep his voice light, but he managed. "That's false."

He closed his lips, examining the frown on Dagny's, wondering if she'd noticed his mask slipping. How long had the emotions been free - a second? Two? Five? Still, he could not stop himself from thinking, from answering her question again, in his own mind. _I would never side with the Jötunn_, he thought. _I quarreled with Thor, but never with Father._ The words were met by a much eviler whisper: _Odin is not _your_ father_.

"I agree with you."

The words broke him from the revelry, scattering his thoughts. He raised his eyebrows.

"In Browning's book," Dagny continued. "Loki is never _really_ evil. He's always toying with the other gods, tricking them and whatnot, and that makes you think he doesn't like them. It's all comedic and then, at the end, he claims loyalty to Thor and all is well." She bit her lip. "Only, my research made him seem a little different."

"Tell me," Loki said again.

"I think that there's a very fine line between good and evil and, maybe, the side Loki was on wasn't so well-defined. Browning and, I guess, to some extent, Marcus seem to think it was all a bit of fun. He switched sides all the time, but was it really _just_ to be tricky?" The girl tapped her foot on the ground, once, twice. "Anyway, I have another question."

Loki nodded.

"Did Loki kill Baldr?"

_Is that what the humans think?_ he thought. Aloud, he answered, "No. That is false."

Dagny tilted her head to the side, curious. "But did he contribute to Baldr's death at all?"

"No," Loki repeated. "I was taught by my parents that Baldr was immune to death and that no one, not even Loki, could harm him."

"But mistletoe -"

"- did not _kill_ him," he interrupted. "I was told he did not die."

The girl's startled look was more prompt than dismissal and, when he did not offer more, she frowned. Looking like she wanted to say more, she asked instead, "One more question?"

"Of course."

"Were there every any..." She trailed off, swallowing, and he noticed her fist clenching for the second time. "Were there ever any _myths_ or, um, any _stories_ where...where Loki came to Earth and interacted with a human?"

"With a human." Loki pretended to consider the question, but he already knew what to say; he'd known for hours that he would reach her eventually, that he would force her curiosity to overcome her fear. Finally, his plan had been fruitful. _You're mine now_, he thought. To the girl, he added, "Yes. I've heard of such things."

"Oh." She seemed to brighten, losing the touch of pallor that had been sapping the pink from her cheeks. "I suppose I have too. At least, one or two stories, somewhere along the line. That must've been why..." She stopped, clutching her coffee cup again, but did not release his gaze.

"Why what?" Loki asked, trying to keep the excitement from his voice.

"I probably shouldn't tell you," she said, her words acting as a preamble, rather than a refusal to speak. "Last night, I got really stressed or tired or _something,_ and I had this weird, like, hallucination about Loki. He was invisible to everyone else - that should've been my first clue - but I really thought he was there. He was talking to me and asking if I was a sorceress and, well." She smiled, bashfully. "He kind of looked a lot like you. Isn't that crazy?"

"Actually," Loki replied. "That's true."

Returning her smile, he imagined himself in the center of Times Square, took a breath, and vanished from the cafe entirely.

* * *

DIDN'T SEE THAT COMING, DID YOU?! What do you think Dagny's going to say/do now? Her chapter's coming up next so stay tuned and feel free to tell me what you thought! Much love!


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